


Bird Of Paradise, You’re Why We’ll Do It Again

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [13]
Category: Arcadia (UK Band), Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos), Fashion Model RPF, The Power Station (Supergroup)
Genre: A/B/O verse, Addiction, Album: Notorious (Duran Duran), Alternate Universe, Arguing, Band, Bars, Better half, Birthday Sex, Blindfolds, Blowjobs, Boats and Ships, Boys on film, Car Sex, Child Neglect, Coming Out, Crack, Dom/sub, Drinking, Drowning, Drugs, Escaping Death, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fire, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Food Kink, Food Sex, Friends With Benefits, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Interviews, Kissing, Lawsuits, M/M, Makeup, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Models, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Music Videos - Freeform, Paparazzi, Parenthood, Parrot, Parties, Pining John, Public Display of Affection, Reconciliation, Recovery, Separation, Serenade, Shower Sex, Single Parents, Slow Dancing, Testing Friendships, The Crucial Three, Threats, Unresolved Sexual Tension, breakdowns, fantasies, handjobs, public relationship, video shoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 83,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22786648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: Sequel to We Danced Into The Fire.John isn’t the same. He’s frustrated, enraged. The wayward Taylor’s trying to worm his way back into where he should call home, with aspecial little someoneholding on tight.But John doesn’t have much of a band left to fight for his violent misuse anymore. They’ve all been violently huffed and blown out of the industry.Now, it’s John’s turn to rip theNotorioussurvivors to shreds, baby girl in tow.Begins in early 1986, with John’s chambers more than empty.
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Warren Cuccurullo/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 154
Kudos: 64





	1. Babe, You’re A Bird Of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for graphic: language, depictions of sex, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, hallucinations, trauma and violence throughout.

Beautifully calloused, tingling and tormenting fingers trailed slowly down the burning, slick skin of his front man.

The bassist breathed in, shaky, and released it: in a perfect scale of moans.

The singer picked up his speed, dexterous fingers plunging lower, teeth nipping at the elongated column of his throat, tongue swirling, in a rhythm all of their own.

Those torturous fingers clasped his sides, skirting down the grooves of his cut hips and shoving the name of it deep into his ear: _my bass god is here and John, he better not be running anywhere before morning._

His bass god groaned in response which screamed: _he’s not, Charlie. He’ll never leave your— goddamnit!_  
  


The perfect instrumental section were shaken from their daze, vinyl skipping on the track as the dainty cries that pierced John’s soul and mercilessly snapped his quivering heart in two, filled the air. With a wry look, the bassist locked gazes with his front man; nose just inches from him. He was smiling, a little remorseful even, but he understood.

Seeing the fire in those icy blue eyes, the desire that rained down all over him, John prayed that someday it would become easier to tear himself away. His front man, _his_ man, slowly retreated. They parted with a sigh, lustful heat still simmering between both men.

John scrambled to his feet, cursing as he fell flat on his face. His glasses were no where to be seen.

_Pathetic little pun completely intended._

There was a strong grip, stable and firm, atop of his bare shoulder. It was littered with sweat, _sweating dewdrops that glistened fresh down his side._ John relaxed his muscles, rolling his shoulder into that grip: cherishing the feel.

He let himself be guided, turned and helped back to standing. John fumbled, fingers gripping hard to the support before him. Fingers losing purchase, losing the battle against sweat slick skin.

They locked eyes and within moments, almost an eternity, John’s world was bought back to life: made clear in every colour of the rainbow. His and Simon’s rainbow, made even brighter every time their baby girl’s laugh graced their world. Every cry, every hiccup.

John watched with interest, love and intrigue, as Simon’s lightly muscled and tanned arms retreated from his puffy face. He was smiling, it was small and inviting. As though he was about to drop a joke at any moment.

“She’s real impatient,” Simon breathed, barely above a whisper, “just like her mummy.”

_That he is, luv._

John chuckled, it was loud and rang out throughout their bedroom.

“She’s our hungry little wolf _cub_ , that’s for sure, babe.”

_That she is, luv._

It took another wail, another merciless tug at his heart strings for John to stop gawking at Simon, utterly lost in his striking blue gaze. He was nudged, prodded, almost ushered out the door by the singer who was laughing. Well and truly aware that John’s mind was in much dirtier places that it really ought to be at this moment.

Flipping himself round, shimmying out of Simon’s loose grasp, they were face to face again. Without word, John reeled Simon in. The kiss was quick, heated and mind shattering; his head was still fuzzy and boy, did he like it.

Voice dipping low, suggestive and deep, Simon uttered: “Don’t. Take. Too. Long.” He punctuated it with a touch, light and teasing, “ _I’m_ hungry too.”

John couldn’t stifle his giggles, his hiccup. Cheeks now a flush of crimson darker, glassy eyes made clear, he swept out of the bedroom.

Nimble fingers tightening his dressing gown, the thick satin was heaven on his skin. The closer he got to the door, the shorter the corridor became, John could feel a tingle. The tingle from within; a warmth pooling inside that made his stomach quirk and breast ache, already swelling.

With a sudden caution, a deep breath, John creaked open the glittering silver bedroom door and enclosed himself in the sparkly, front page worthy space.

He shushed her, babbling to her non stop. John still felt shame in doing so, he was taking his time being accustomed to the fact that she perhaps could read and understand him much better than he could her. She had proven herself to him long before she was here, in the here and now.

It would vary day by day which song would stop the tears, send her back into the comfort of la la land, but today, right here and now, John knew exactly which track to butcher.

“I heard ya promise but I” John inhaled a deep breath (he was still struggling to get this part out) “ _donbeeleeveinthatsywedoitagain_. Ugh, yuck,” John adopted his natural voice again, calm and soothing, “what do you think?”

The cries momentarily intensified. John’s brows furrowed.

“Oh… I know baby, I know, Mummy’s here.”

Lanky arms encased themselves around the little precious ball of black fluff, who wasn’t so little anymore. As soon as he made contact, shared his welcome warmth, her tears began to subside. John was thankful, he couldn’t hide his joy. There was something brewing within him; it would be easier for the two of them tonight.

Bringing her fragile form up to his puffy cheeks, John planted a single, huge kiss on her own chubby little cheek. A long string of heart warming little sounds filled the room, filled John. He felt like dancing, being gifted with her precious little cackle of a laugh was surely worth celebrating each and every time.

“For _you_ , Barbie,” he held her close to his chest, right above his pounding heart, “that’s why we’ll do it again. Simon and I,” he inhaled, “ _daddy_ and I,” the exhale was shaky, “will do it all again.. for.. you know.. you.”


	2. Waiting For The Sound Of Thunder

Thrashing himself from his torturous, ever so lonesome nightmare, John groaned as a wayward hand banged itself repeatedly on his bedside table: no luck with killing the alarm.

Barbarella was wailing, he was already fumbling to his feet, bleary eyes scanning the rumpled golden sheets (with a couple baby related stains that he refused to dwell upon) for any sight of his glasses. Thinking he could see, _as blind as a bat._ _Batman_. Internally snorting at the fact that he had again misplaced them; a regular occurrence these days.

Groans being deafened by his daughter’s cries, John screwed his own good for nothing eyes shut and felt his way through his suite, knocking over whatever the hell was sharp and another very heavy piece of no good crap along his way.

She was only in the next room, the newest edition to his beloved Taylor sanctuary. It was like a revolving door these days, New York was now the place to off load and not return too for days on end… if any other Taylor was concerned. John couldn’t even recall the last time he and Andy had spent the week together, the pint sized guitarist shredding wild and dizzying chords that had Barbarella in a giggling fit and John with a head ache larger than… something pretty damn large.

The lack of sleep was indeed a silent but deadly killer. His wild nights, three day benders, meant nothing in comparison to this. All of this.

Miraculously, he hobbled through to what was now Barbarella’s bedroom. Knocking another probably not so beloved trinket on the way, the crash rang through them both and set her off again.

“Oh for the.. _fudge sake!_ ”

_Fudge? Seriously?_

It rang in his head, tones full of blue and silver.

_Why yes Charlie, Nicky think’s it’ll be wise to replace all my cuss words with something less morbid. Problem?_

(He would’ve been looking Simon in the eye if he didn’t have his back to him and hands losing purchase on the bed post).

_Why yes Johnny, you sound like a bloody moron._

_Charming._

John could still envision the likely look of bemusement, a raised black eyebrow and highly exaggerated pout of those puffy lips, as he basically echoed the words of the keyboardist. With hardly as much grace and poise, of course.

Another clang of something, glass threatening to slice his heel, John shouted. He cursed himself for his curse, stumbling his way through to the cot. The knobbly bits and engraved details were the sign that he had, eventually, made it there in almost one piece. It was to be covered in silver, wrapped in a tacky pink bow that had _Nick Rhodes_ slapped all over it. Eventually. If Nick was to come back to New York someday in the near future.

John didn’t hold his breath.

Chancing it, John put his hand into the flame, trying to grasp around Barbarella’s tiny mid section whilst blind. He felt about the tiny enclosure, her cotton baby grow, another couple balls of fluff behind her and- _holy fuck._

“There they _fudging_ are!” John could’ve cheered, reeling in his daughter whilst the other hand retrieved his prized frames. “Must’ve dozed off… dropped ‘em here. Did I drop them here, Barbie? Or did ya steal ‘em?!”

As John slid the familiar thick frames back on, his gaze immediately dropped down to Barbarella who was now staring at him, a little pink in the face.

“You little bugger. You _stole_ ‘em.” It was playful, somewhat.

The rosey glow on Barbarella’s puffy cheeks wasn’t from crying, John knew that in an instant.

“Oh for the love of—” _Father Cassidy wouldn’t approve of such blasphemy_ , John hoisted Barbarella up and chucked her over his shoulder, “now, what the hell did you do in _there_ Barbie?”

John was already halfway to the changing table, breathing through his mouth.

He deposited her there and was headed back into her bedroom. Eyes widening, spine tingling, John was practically skipping over to a chest of drawers. They were once baby pink until he and Andy had gotten their grubby mits on some delicious black lacquer.

Bangles clinking, breaths coming faster and faster, a single dive in and he was cutting through his life force, rapid, leaning over and snorting all that he bloody could of his salvation. Two lines, however many chops.

“M-much.. fuckin’ better,” he bellowed, rubbing at his nose.

John leapt a foot into the air.

Within moments he was seeing all the damn colours of the damn effervescent rainbow: screaming in neon pinks and blues. John’s pulse jacked up, his head was running miles and miles, and he was spewing filth.

It was what it took to get through day in day out with her, all the crying, spit ups and whatever the hell else a tiny human could produce. It was always worth it, a private party for one Taylor and his very, very tiny and not always so welcome other Taylor.

  
***  
  


For John, the grind hadn’t ever really stopped. _The Power Station_ tour was a complete success, the supergroup sold out gig after gig and bought the house down night after night. Even if John himself was on another planet far away in another galaxy that was being pelted by little ecstasy filled meteors, he would never be forgetting the moments he had had on stage.

It was all so different. So liberating. Having a new front man to parade about the stage with, to goof about with, really made for a pleasurable experience. Even if John himself was being torn apart by his own guilt, foggy mind wondering endlessly, the missing of cues and notes were only amplified by his perplexed state. A wonder why, then a craving, being driven mad by the unknown. Where was Simon? Where was Barbarella?

But that was over now. Life on the road was hectic as ever, multiple tour stops saw him with a child one night and a hoard of sweaty men the next. Then a child again, then no child for a week. The whole situation was mental, taxing, and whatever the hell other adjectives that could be used to describe John’s drug raving rollercoaster of a summer jolly.  
  


_Live Aid_ was a distant memory. Well, certain parts of it. There had been far too many incidents, burn-outs, break downs and crumbling hearts since. It was no secret that the bassist hadn’t coped. John himself knew that, running at the first chance he had gotten.

Turning back, there was somebody by his side.

_Arcadia_ was another story all together. The gothic fantasy, tar basking behind a chain of roses, was the furthest thing from his mind. He wasn’t there. Even when John was stood in the room, an early demo of a very distorted _Say The Word_ flowing from the speakers, he was in a place far away: eyes wandering; eyes blown wide.

“What do you think?”

John threw his head up, pushing himself from the wall.

He strutted into the centre of the grand living room, wishing Simon was a step to the left and Nick a flick to the right. He’d catch Barbarella way out west.

She murmured something and it snapped John’s attention, already ogling over her and matching her tiny voice with his own strange babbles.

“What did we think Barbie?” He asked, phone cord oddly tucked into the junction of where neck met shoulder. “What do _you_ think to Daddy’s latest nonsense lyrics, baby?”

Barbarella was thrown unceremoniously over his satin coated shoulder, drooling and leaving a little wet patch atop it. She lapsed into silence, miraculously nodding off to the track much to John’s laughter and Simon’s despair.

Together they anxiously waited, as though they deserved a rise out of their six month old.

“Meh, not a fan.” The bassist spoke, plonking the two of them down into the plush leather sofa with a small moan.

“Fuck you, John.” The line was crackling but John felt his lips turn up at hearing the grate in the singer’s voice.

“Get you’re hot ass— _butt_ on a Concorde and let’s do it.” He rambled, rolling his shielded eyes.

_Goddamnit, one for the swear crate. Fuck you Nick._

It wasn’t even a jar from day one. Crate. Always a crate. John smirked at the memory.

He heard a couple more tracks but found his mind to be drifting again. If anything the wide eyes bugging out of his head found themselves darting between the phone cord and baby. Phone cord. Baby. Phone cord… _Simon_.

_The sexy mofo—_

John couldn’t focus, he wouldn’t focus. The mystical tracks of ever growing confusion and frustration continue to bombard his sanctuary of lusty moans and guitar shredding madness: really screwing with his dynamic. The phone was discarded, antenna still up as John began to pace. He did his little weird ‘bobbing’ thing that only ever really happened when he was playing a couple drinks in, bouncing ever so slightly. A deft hand caressed Barbarella’s black and shimmery baby grow, courtesy of Unkie Nick, whilst the other ran itself through his hair.

With a grimace, John found two strands laying in his palm. He chucked them to one side and admired the grease that a single hair ruffle had left behind.

_Most Fanciable Male on the planet three years running, huh, Smash Hits, huh?!_

At that moment John finally noticed a lull in weird tinkly music. For once, he hasn’t been listening to the tracks and marking out the bassline. Or, where the bassline _should_ have been. _Who even was the bastard that they hired to fill in for me? Thinking that they even could?_

Settling next to the phone again, John hovered over. He found his moment, a couple words tumbling off of his lips.

Barbarella was now snoring softly, _another thing she inherited from daddy_ , _poor girl_ , he mused.

_Arcadia_ just didn’t seem to be her thing which both tore John’s heart in two and stuck it back together, knowing that she was right there with him. _The Power Station._

The three words alone meant tears in his eyes, a trembling bottom lip and a flush high up on his cheeks. Shunned to his New York apartment, John lurched himself from those traitorous thoughts and settled back for the here and now. _Arcadia_ nonsense and bottle of Jack, a surprising new favourite, were within reach.

It went without saying which tempter won that round.

Bidding Simon farewell, probably- he didn’t remember, the phone was shoved aside and John’s head hit the back of the sofa. He smacked into it almost as violently as the beloved upturned Volvo in his beloved _Wild Boys_ stint, over and over, determined to keep himself awake.


	3. Where’s The Ending And The Start?

And there he was, contemplating everything again. Replaying 1985 in random, disjointed, under developed scenes all over again.

It had been mere months since the supergroup had parted ways, John wouldn’t be getting over it. His wounds were too deep, too sore, failing miserably at yanking off soaked bandage after bandage.

_The Power Station_ tour was perhaps the biggest— Barbarella was crying, _how long have I even been here?_ his mind on autopilot— ….nope, _one_ of the biggest mistakes of the year. He was ever so conflicted.

“A-”

Vile hormones that he still had little control over were making him relive all the joy, the fights, the endless nights all a fuzzy blur rolling into one. He also now had a ‘he who could not be named’ style situation, said he slipping through his fingers.

“An-”

Wordlessly, John held up a glass and was ready to down it. Who the toast was too, he wasn’t sure. The only thing that he knew was that the _Jack Daniels_ would be burning his throat, running hot and violent through his gullet.

_Screw it._

“To… erm, you, Barbie!” He wailed, even louder than her.

She let out a small cackle, tears stopping their stream for about two seconds and John let slip a small smile.

He set his glass back down. Untouched.

Channeling his inner Le Bon, two huge hands wrapped around Barbarella’s tiny mid section and bought her round so they were puffy face to puffy face.

“Is anybody hun- _gry?!_ ” He could hear it, the _Sing Blue Silver_ recording of the Duranie favourite, whirring about his mind.

As if on cue, the tears stopped.

“Damn right you are girl.” John already had a clumsy hand on the hem of his shirt. “Remind me too… you know… eat, at some point.”

Eyeing the prized bottle, John felt his own stomach quake. When had he last eaten? He could still feel the burning sensation said bottle would ignite, throat alight with it.

Shucking his oversized satin shirt (a personal favourite, all his favourites were from the _female_ maternity section at _BHS_ ) to one side, baring his stomach and breasts, John smirked as he saw his daughter’s chocolate browns widen and her tiny lips part in excitement.

“Come to mummy,” John bought her closer, “my hungry little wolf cub.”

As Barbarella was feeding, John was completely ignorant of the tiny sucking sound. His daughter’s rhythm. Her little breaths, her grabby hands. His eyes were open, aching, fleeting back to the coffee table before him.

The bottle that was screaming to him. The solemn ashtray by its side.

  
***

“ _They.._ ” he let it linger, “thought we were just _jerking ourselves_ ” he muttered to the presenters of _Top Of The Pops_ , John always liked to pitch in, “but look.. look at us n- _now!_ ”

He hiccuped, before taking a lengthy second swig.

The prized bottle was half-downed within moments. John had thanked the highest divinity he could think of over and over, pulling his shirt off to pray, for his alcohol appetite beginning to finally return. The gruelling months without a dash, or twenty, of his beloved _Smirnoff_ had been utter torture. But that was then, a fuzzy memory of a time too sober to call John Fucking Taylor, that it didn’t matter anymore.

He sputtered a few more drunken lines as another not so synthy as his tastes would’ve liked track flowed from his hot off of the press plasma TV set. He murmured some potential new Duran lyrics to Barbarella, drummed a little on her tiny thigh and that was pretty much it. Another eventful night in the ever growing more lonesome Taylor penthouse.

_Hey, at least she bloody well laughed tonight._

She had been plonked in his lap the whole time, engorged chocolate browns also seemingly plastered to the TV set.

“Some.. s-someday Bar-” he hiccuped, spilling a couple precious drops of clear liquid, “Barbie.. daddy will be back on.. you know girl, _there!_ ”

_Is Election Day still even in this thing? If it ain’t then why am I watching?_ His drunken mind miraculously strung together.

A shaky hand stretched out, John thinking his six month old was still following, signalling to the chart. Perhaps she was, that baby girl of his was a killer.

With a scoff, “huh, crummy chart.”

The charts always looked better, a little hotter and more scandalous when his name was featured. But little did the world know, that indeed would be the case. And soon. John would just keep on doing what he do and somewhere, somehow, he would be finding his feet again.

He supposed he deserved the bottle: tomorrow was a big day after all.


	4. Do You Look The Way, You Wanted To Look?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know exactly what this is. Start singing. You know you want too.

Standing eye to eye with his gloomy reflection, the figure was doused in a murky blue that did nothing to hide his crowded irises. His skin was pale, almost white, only the vein on his neck adding any definition to his pasty complexion. The figure appeared so ghostly that there was an inward prayer for the mirror to shatter, the sight of his teased locks to crumble before him.

_But vampires don’t show themselves, they are gifted the lack of reflection._

His contemplation was disrupted by a deft hand, it invaded his view. The engorged, unholy gaze flickered over it, the long and nimble fingers appeared so serene in the dusky light. The digits were painted, undoubtedly ruby red, stained black in the mirror.

A soft sweep of the brush and his face was full of powder, smoothing out his guise as he appeared even more ghostly: a lost soul, traipsing wounded throughout the solemn set.

_Another supposed utopia._

Without word, his head was yanked to one side, mouth parting in surprise. His lips were still wet, the glossy tint, cursing himself before having all thoughts flung from his mind. The figure was captured in a bruising kiss, the locking of lips on his were so violent that he yelped in shock and stumbled in fear. That soft, promising hand was groping at his mullet, aimlessly, the other running low down his chest.

They broke for air and his mind was cloudy, he could barely see her.

“I know you’re a fuckin’ fag John but, the seventeen year old _whore_ in me just couldn’t resist,” she spewed, gathering her makeup kit before sauntering back out of the door.

“ _Twat_.” He breathed, not convinced he meant it.

It was that moment that the clouds parted and John’s mind forced itself into a newfound clarity. Overcome by guilt, embarrassment, still with the body of a whale.

His darling Barbarella was sleeping soundly in the corner of the dressing room, unbeknownst to her mummy’s latest crude actions.

  
***  
  


This was John’s moment. His directorial debut. He might as well bloody take it, make it memorable.

There was no guarantee that he would be allowed such creative freedom again, once he was back with… with…

A bell sounded and one of those fancy director boards clapped, the theatre was shunned into silence. The mystical helping hands were at his sides again, a sweep of a blusher brush again, before it all fell away. Any shield, anyone who might have been in his corner. His nor bangles chimed as he ran a slick hand down his collar.

**_I Do What I Do to have you, have you,_ **

****

There were endless reasons for going solo. Not that John could recall many that weren’t crumbling his heart in two, in that moment.

**_I do it all to have you._ **

If he had appeared ghostly before, the sight of him now was of another entity: a paranormal disaster. He was suited and stylish, tux too small and too revealing, with a crisp white collar that grew rumpled around him.

**_I Do What I Do to have you, have you,_ **

His hair was everywhere, random strands flowing in any which way they wanted: nothing would agree with him.

**_I do it all to have you._ **

**_I do, I do, I do._ **

****

There were endless reasons for him not having his models pose around him, suggestively drape themselves over his straining lap. Initiate any and all the scenes that were lovingly bestowed on his perverse mind, blown wide by the cinema screen.

**_Do you look the way, you wanted to look?_ **

The film began to roll, John was thrown into the thick of it. The director and the actor, a hat he would never wear well.

**_Do you feel the way, you wanted to feel?_ **

****

The shoot was simplistic, reminiscent of the sexual awakening that one was sure to have watching the intense _MGM_ thriller. Basking in the inky blue, his pretty lips fell open and he recited, word by word, breath by breath, what were finally his own lyrics. Something to be proud of, something he wanted to share with the world.

**_Are you happy now, that we fantasised?_ **

John was the upmost professional; the heat was scorching through his veins and he found his way. His features were well defined, toned in the shadows. They were truly on his side, hiding all that he needed to hide.

**_I Do What I Do to have you, have you,_ **

****

Remaining seated, the film rolled and those around him reacted in kind. The theatre had fallen silent, enamoured, enraptured by what lay before them: their own personal, private show.

**_I do it all to have you._ **

A model to his right caught his attention. A slim, trim, statuesque figure with a sleek ponytail. Even in the thick of it, the blinding blue lights, her gaze was piercing. Heated.

**_Do I touch the way, you want to be touch?_ **

John wanted nothing to do with her, he didn’t need to have her on side. This was about him, all of him, no one to steal his spotlight. Turned on by the pulsing beat, the perfect rhythm for a shag was music to his disgraced ears.

**_Have you heard the words, you wanted to hear?_ **

****

The shoot was slow, stops and starts. He had to feed Barbie in between. John felt nothing but guilt having left her where he had, having little choice but to trust her little life with a willing stage hand by the name of… something that was oddly close to Simon. He even resembled Simon somewhat, a blonde mullet that captured his _Wild Boys_ days. Days John himself couldn’t wait to relive with him, together.

**_Is my body heat, the right intensity?_ **

****

_If only Simon could see me now._

****

He would be fooling nobody, having personally undertaken the soundtrack to what was undoubtedly one of the raunchiest flicks he had ever seen. He would be fooling nobody, wearing his perverse heart on his sleeve, if he said he didn’t enjoy it. _The pretty pictures._

_Would he even like it?_

**_Are you happy now?_ **

**_I did what I did._ **

There was no stopping him, a new parent or not. Who said parenthood couldn’t be sexy nor have it’s perks?

_Why wouldn’t he like it, this track?_

**_Are you happy now?_ **

**_I did what I did._ **

John was vocalising his newfound maturity, there would be complaints and outrage. Something the Duranie’s would never expect. Not from their golden boy.

**_Did what I did._ **

****

If only they knew that he was the furthest thing from golden, not only in the here and now, a vampire-ish slave to his own desires: taught voice flowing, dripping in sex, above the synth-determined beat.

**_Are you happy now?_ **

****

He was pinned by the crew again, hair being ruffled and shirt shoved back into his trousers.

**_I Do What I Do to have you, have you._ **

The camera enclosed in on him again, spotlights blinding and the heat was intensifying.

“I check it out, I check it ow-out!”

_I Do it all to have you, Simon. I hope you’re happy now, I did what I did._

**_I Do it all to have you._ **

_***_   
  


John’s mind was in a tizzy. He had immediately forgotten the taste of those lips, how they crushed and bit at his own. He wasn’t into it and hadn’t responded, he prided himself on stepping back.

“Eyes _Like An Angel_. Barbie, so wide, don’t lie.”

Rocking Barbarella in a slow, languid rhythm, small and breathy lyrics flowing from his lips, John felt them tug up into a smile.

“You’ve never felt like this before.”

It was humbling, he supposed he could say, humbling that even now: a man by his side; a baby in his arms, that women still flocked to him. He could still turn them, albeit thousands less than before, into a quivering mess at his side.

“Fly _Like An Angel_. So high this time.”

He was oddly proud of it, the vanity in which it all entailed.

“You send your senses, streaming free.”

He had another afternoon of shooting, throughout the misty blue. John too was to be captured leaving the theatre, with ultimate discretion. The way the thousands of men who would hopefully flock to the flick would. 

Raising to his feet, his words hit a lull. Her precious browns were shut, her tiny chest rising and falling in time with his words. Together they were living their own beat, she really was Johnny’s little angel. John handed her fragile frame back to the Simon lookalike and slowly backed away, engorged eyes firmly on the little ball of black who was wrapped so tightly.


	5. To Drench Your Skin, In Lover’s Rosey Stain

Inching ever further into February, towards that sacred premier date, John was counting down the nights until he wouldn’t feel so alone.

He wasn’t alone exactly but, it would surely be swell to have another voice actually punctuate words back to him. Not that John didn’t crave Barbarella’s tinkly tones, he was well aware that she could hold a conversation damn well but he really did miss his company.

Just something small, perhaps a chat over dinner in his penthouse.

He supposedly treasured every moment he managed alone. Almost losing a comb to the dried out and teased hell that was his mullet (and having Barbarella laugh at her mummy’s hell poorly retrieving it, losing a manic clump of hair in the process) was the final straw- John _finally_ dove headfirst into the shower.

She dozed off soon after because apparently giggling at John was too tiring for her, _the little bugger!_ He hoped to grasp a few precious minutes in private whilst she was content in la la land.

Standing under the spray, John ran two slick hands through clumps of hair, all down soaked skin and round each and every lump and bump. He still wasn’t satisfied with his weight, struggling to take it off. He knew his white salvation would help, just not this quick. He briefly pondered his using, the noticeable _lull_ in want.

With a smile, he fingered for the shampoo bottle now thoroughly lost in the steam.

Letting his thoughts wander, John took his sweet time running his deft fingers through the tangles, massaging his scalp and lathered up his products. Scrubbing hard, he really hadn’t felt so clean in months, conditioner now in hand.

Within moments, his mind had wandered to that super secret place that he kept under lock and key, not so much these days but when he was alone: he could unleash it. Violently.

He already had a hand on himself, tugging with little restraint. His grip was futile on the tile wall, his legs threatening to give out underneath him as his breaths quickened and his eyes screwed themselves shut.

Amidst the thick of it, however long it took him to accept it in the swirls of the steam, it became clear to John that his efforts were pointless. A real struggle, another lonesome nightmare that both embarrassed and stressed him to no end. Realising that he was fighting a losing battle, John let himself go with a frustrated grunt. His fall in sexual appetite was a worry, a concern. The furthest thing from John _Fucking_ Taylor out there.

Even with the raunchiest, tasteless _MGM_ romp that he had plastered in his mind, the engorged eyes that should have been, John found himself getting nowhere.

A poor blonde chick suffering in a blindfold just wasn’t enough for him anymore.

Stepping out of the steam, he was bought back to reality upon hearing those rhythmical tones again.

He perked up, hurrying with his towel. Barely dry, John was shoving on his glasses and plodding back to her bedroom. He wanted nothing more than to share his time with her, to hoist her up and soothe her.

Perhaps it was time that she heard the _Rio_ album. Barbarella was already a big fan of self titled (they had to start her early) and, John felt as though, the second album showcased his musical ear much better. It was the fan favourite after all.

Skin still damp, soaked mullet stuck to his forehead, he was shushing his daughter and murmuring nothing in particular. His lips were wet but Barbarella didn’t seem to mind as she almost instantly became quiet, content, a vulnerable vocal dropping from her own teeny lips.

In John’s eyes, framed or not, Barbarella was the only Duranie that really meant something to him. Her opinion mattered. Even though now there was a lull in the music, the music they created as a unit, her opinion still meant the world.

***  
  


“…You’re kidding…”

“…What’dya mean we bloody spent—”

“… How did we even?”

“…You son of a—”

“Alright, you little shit, there ain’t a goddamn way that I, _only_ me, am payin’ that damn— fuck off, yeah y’know I can bleedin’ _afford_ it but not on this damn crap.”

“I’ve got my damn daughter to think off first, for fucks sake.”

The phone slammed. A priceless ornament atop of the table smashed. John was kicking and screaming, taking it out on an innocent painting beside the front door.

“That mother fucker isn’t gon’ make me pay this alone.” He spat, whipping himself around so he could stop before ramming his head into the damn diamond encrusted walls.

But if he did that, wouldn’t that be his _get out of jail free_ card?

_Fuck._

Just at that moment, John a panting pile of crumpled black on the floor, a chime boombed from the front door. A grand bell, a familiar tap of familiar dainty knuckles.

John cocked his head up, now flushed, and tried to steady his breath. He had tears in his tired eyes plus a little blood running down his wrist, staining his white satin shirt.

“Shit.. shit, _shit_.”

Scrambling to his feet, a little shaky, John deftly avoided the smashed glass that littered the floor and dived to the front door. Cranking the knob, the once heavenly feel of divine gold under his palm was now burning him, skin aflame. The bassist was flushed with both pitiful embarrassment and rage.

John was more than prepared to have his precious Taylor sanctuary invaded once again. However this time, he felt as though, his guests were well and truly welcome. John just prayed to the divinity, that wouldn’t let him anywhere _near_ heaven’s door to turn him away from it, that they would be happy here.

It was incredibly far from Moseley in Birmingham. And Putney, London, for that matter.

“Are you ready, Barbie?” John called over his shoulder, to Barbarella lying on a little play mat by the sofas central to the lounge.

She gargled or something, that was enough of an answer for John. She was excited, of course she was, the little fire in her eyes and quirk up of her little lips set John’s own heart on fire.

Barbarella also hadn’t started crying throughout his screams and swears, that was something in and of itself. She was more than ready for this, happiness radiating from Baby Taylor. Perhaps, even more so than her poor mummy.

Engulfing another breath, his pulse still struggling to settle, John’s grin plastered his face and he staggered his gait.

“Big brother!” He was beaming, lurching himself into those open arms.

Their hug was long and hearty, John wanted to familiarise himself with every inch of him. Every scent, every rise and fall of his chest. How his gleaming blonde hair caught the light. How his plush lips, tinted with a glossy sheen, grew into a blinding smile.

John didn’t want to let Nick go.


	6. Girls On Film, See Them Smile

“Nigel,” Nick coughed, “these bags are heavier than they may first appear.”

“Oh yeah, sorry!” John murmured, finally letting his grip on Nick’s chiffon shirt go.

With a grin, Nick ever so elegantly dropped his bags and stepped aside: letting John marvel over the sea of luggage that painted the corridor.

“And lemme guess, he has about, erm, three. You’re all the rest.” John pointed.

“Nailed it.”

John perked up, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open. He was overcome with a wave of intense emotion, he couldn’t define what type, other than how he felt that if he stayed rooted to the ground another moment longer he would simply combust from the lack of contact. The voice was smooth, a tinge of cockiness, flowing rhythmically down the long and winding corridor to his grand penthouse.

He was stood stock still, feet glued to a single spot. John was trembling, it was obvious, whimpering. There were tears in his tired eyes, threatening to roll in streams behind this thick frames. His face was blotchy, a little coat of blush sweeping his puffy cheeks.

“Fuck!” He groaned, cheeks already wet.

John hastily wiped at his face, to no avail. He still couldn’t move his feet, he was quaking so hard.

“ _Luv?_ ”

Finding the strength, he pivoted on his heel. Catching the sudden little bellow sounding from his baby girl, John’s smile was blinding and his tears streaming wild.

“Simon.”

He was tackled, almost toppling over, as the singer lurched his weight forward to hoist John up into the air. He was giggling as Simon spun him, then breathless as Simon sucked every last drop of air from John’s nicotine rotting lungs.

Simon’s lips were heaven, perfectly plush and inviting. How could John keep himself away?

There were deft hands, so familiar and reassuring, threading themselves through his teased curls. With a small yank, John let his lips be claimed again. Let his breath be stolen again. He was left winded, riding a new high so beautiful that it felt so right.

Maybe John could get used to the natural highs of his front man. Pour him out, roll him up, lick him, snort him whole.

It took several minutes for either John or Simon to hear the keyboardist’s rich Brummie tones flowing throughout the living room.

“Can we please keep it all PC? There’s a minor present.” Nick’s tone was light, although John could barely breathe he managed a small sigh of relief.

By the looks of it: the sudden quake of his shoulders and widening of those icy blues, Simon had too just remembered a special little someone who was anxiously awaiting his luxe voice.

“Barbie!” Simon was practically bouncing throughout the room.

John giggled, wiping the last of the water from his face, before merrily skipping his way to his child.

“Hey! My beautiful, ikkle wolf cub!”

She was babbling, squealing, all sounds of pure joy. John felt elated, riding out his high that he almost forgot about the—

“ _Fuck!_ ”

—Skin slicing glass.

_Sweet Mother of Christ._

The best of John’s friends.

_I swear to God!_

And there he was, hopping on one foot _had to be the fricking one that had been stitched and re-stitched, you asshole,_ somewhat bleeding out.

“Goddamnit!” He groaned, awkwardly shuffling to the leather sofa.

He sunk into it, Nick was already by his side with a towel that had materialised from nowhere.

Wincing, Nick’s smooth hands wrapped themselves around John, mopping him up. He ground his head back, clawing at the sofa and determined not to curse his damn head off with Barbarella metres away.

It didn’t go too well.

He bit down, gnawed through, two table cloths and the glass was slipped from him. Thankfully, there was nothing too deep. The harmony of Simon and his baby girl, who had been whisked away to her bedroom in the thick of it, kept John clinging to consciousness. Kept him awake.

“Does it need… shit, _agh!_ ”

Nick met John’s sweat slick face, his eyes dimmed red.

“Stitches?” Nick finished for him.

“Oh Jesus, fuck me!” The bassist groaned, throwing his head back in quick succession.

He punctuated each word as though he was grinding on that _Volvo_ all over again. Sadly in this instance, there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was turned on about it.

It took John far too long to hear Nick’s hearty chuckle, far too long for him to rip his body that had plastered itself to the leather and lurch himself forward.

“You wanker!”

“I didn’t bloody say anything, Nigel, only finished your sentence. Without cursing a blue streak, may I add.”

“Wanker.” John repeated, though he giggled through it.

He took a single look down, the blood that was now smearing Nick’s heavenly noir blazer and he made a mental note.

_Next album. Wear oversized shizzle._

“I’m.. you know, not gonna need to go… to hospital?”

As John’s laughter began to subside, he caught Nick’s heavily lined eyes with his own, shielded ones.

He shook his head once, raising back to standing.

“Just keep off of it—”

“—Do zero work, don’t move a muscle.. yadda yadda, yeah I know. Been there, done that.”

“Far too many instances.”

“Piss off!”

“Just stating a fact.”

John gave up quick, he didn’t need to dampen the mood any further by picking a fight with his best friend.

“Bring me my child, big brother.” He tried to order Nick but snorted, chest shaking with a giggle. “And the other child, supposedly taking care of her.”

“I wouldn’t know who’s taking care of whom.”

“Fuck if I know it myself, Nicky!”

Those piercing, hazel eyes rolled as Nick broke away from John’s line of sight. He lolled his head back again, countless mullet strands coating his face. He blew, failed at blowing, them away.

“He’s such a _hazard_ , that mummy of yours!”

John’s eyes flung open.

“An _occupational_ hazard, darling Barbarella.”

John threw his head up.

“How can we ever trust him in your presence, my sweet?”

“ _Oi!_ I’m right here ya’know!” John was cackling, gaze roaming all over his blue eyed, not so blonde now singer.

Simon had baby Barbarella on his shoulder before he held her face to face. He bopped her tiny nose, revelling in the precious laugh she mustered up for him. With his own precious chuckle, Simon hoisted her into the air and swung her slowly. Not quite with the voracity he had John, the bassist noted with a smile, but it was perhaps the most treasured sight he had even been privy too.

Simon laying little kisses all over his daughter’s tiny face. Her puffy little cheeks and the fanning of her lashes were adorable.

Barbarella was luring Simon into her flame. She was glowing, burning even brighter in his arms than anything John himself had ever seen.

He scurried to the side before the weight of the sofa shifted, immediately nuzzling Simon’s neck. There they both sat, Barbarella bouncing in Simon’s grasp, a few tiny kicks and squeals. Her smile was huge, her arms were flailing as she was trying to grasp at Simon herself.

Nope, John was wrong. He had never seen such a sight, Simon and his - _their_ \- daughter. Truly a sight to behold.

Nick had perched behind them, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the back of the sofa. Together, the _crucial three_ , were giggling and over exaggerating. Talking non stop to Barbarella, voices interweaving and hitching. She even answered back, always giving her honest opinions and input.

Turns out Barbarella was a fan of _Say The Word_ after all. She was a little stickler for the live performance, it seemed.

_Thank fuck she missed Live Aid. She’d wanna be disowned._

Caught in Simon’s trance, her daddy’s luscious voice filling her tiny ears, Barbarella was living her best life. Simon rocked her in time, to his beat, John patting on his thigh.

And, as always, John never quite hit the mark but that was okay: no Duran was taunting him over his timings today.

Her chocolate browns began to slip closed, body going limp in Simon’s grip. With a small chuckle, he bought her in even closer and cautiously placed her on his strong shoulder. A smooth hand on her back, the other on her head, Simon took to the spotlight.

John, Nick and Barbarella were gifted a special, secretive encore. The cryptic _Lady Ice_ filled the room, Simon’s tones so perfect and stimulating all a once: setting the mood; igniting a flame not too deep inside John.

Content that Barbarella was fast asleep, she had had the ultimate fun today with her daddy, John snaked a hand upwards. He caught Simon’s jaw, well aware of Nick’s gaze still on them both and wordlessly, reeled him in.

Their lips met in a slow kiss, full of heat. Breaking away, noses touching and breaths mingling, John’s smile was burning bright.


	7. Say, If You Will, The Word

“Hey, is it safe? You clothed?”

Rolling his eyes, John smirked before his gaze fell back to Simon. He was trying to be stealthy, probably, creeping into John’s bedroom.

  
“I won’t want to yack in my mouth?!”

John was perched on the bed, legs crossed and Barbarella in hand; braced up against the headboard. He was smiling, engorged eyes were soft as he beckoned Simon over. The singer tip toed, determination to keep quiet writ deep across his face that John had to bark out a small laugh. He managed not to break his rhythm, rocking slowly back and forth and back and forth, humming something.

  
Whispering, “you’ll still wanna.”

“Nonsense.”

John’s ears pricked upon hearing his own little murmurs echoed by a much stronger, powerful vocal.

“Only came outside to watch the nightfall with the rain.”

John cocked his head to one side, grinning wide.

“I heard you makin’ patterns _rhyyyyyy_ -me, lyke.” He joined in, formulating the duet.

“Stop ruining my set, Johnny!” Simon winked, John groaned.

“Some New Romantic lookin’, fo’ tha T. V. sowwnd.”

He continued to swing and sway, clutching Barbarella tight as she fed.

“Switch it _on!_ ”

“Shut up, John.”

  
He giggled, gaze falling back to Barbarella again.

The moment was small, a tender touch that wasn’t bound to last but John was more than happy to ride out the strange high. How content he felt, how at home he felt now that Simon had slipped under the covers beside him. The fabric made a little ‘shushing’ sound, Simon fisted at the gold as he climbed up behind John. whose grip grew tighter around their daughter, the serene silence was fuelled by the tiny sucking sounds she made.

With a sigh, John shifted his weight and let himself fall back into Simon’s embrace. The singer’s shirt was hanging open, revealing a delicious slither of delightfully tanned skin. John, obviously, was shirtless too. He basked in the warmth, the glow that seemed to run around Simon’s silhouette. He truly looked incredible, it went without saying that the new hair colour was working wonders for them both.

The beautiful, in time, lyrics continued to drop off of the singers heavenly tongue. John just rocked back and forth, shivering when two huge hands began running their way across his bare shoulders.

_It’s now or never._

John couldn’t lie to himself much longer, over come with guilt. Although his tone was light, airy, it didn’t really hide the remorse he felt as the words dropped off of his lips like a curse.

_Whilst they’re both quiet._

John staggered his gait, engulfing a shaky inhale. He let it go, crowded irises fleeting back to the man behind him: landing on Simon’s soft gaze.

“I’m out... four hundred thousand pounds, Charlie.” He ground out, voice barely audible.

The touch on his arms stalled. Retreated. Hovered. Settled on his back.

John chanced a look over his shoulder, ripping his gaze from a Barbarella’s tiny face, to land on Simon. John couldn’t read his expression. He figured that it was somewhat quizzical, Simon was holding back more than he should’ve been.

John’s lip twitched. As did his head. A sudden rush running hot through his veins. When had he even taken—

“Simon?”

_Luv?_

“Simon, please.” He sniffed, already feeling the familiar prick at his eyes. “D-don’t, you know,” the next words rolled off of his tongue in a single breath. “ _HoldBackTheRain_.”

The pause was excruciating.

_I only did what you told me to do, Charlie._

With a scoff, the heat on John’s back grew cold as Simon slipped away from him. He stood beside the king size bed, rumpled golden sheets cascading to the tile floor.

  
_Once again, I’m far too late._

“Finally taking my advice, are we Johnny?”

That was cold.

_You doesn’t deserve any of the shit I give you._

John tried to move, unsure if Barbarella had finished her feed or not. He couldn’t, only shuffle forward to shakily rise to his knees. He bought Barbarella up with him, having to cradle her head at a strange angle.

_Why do I keep doing this?_

“Simon.” He tried again, shielded eyes coated in guilt. John’s tears threatened to roll. “Please, I… I don’t know what to do.”

It was evident that Simon was desperately trying to keep quiet, for John and his daughter’s sake. He was burning up under his collar, a fire masking his usually icy gaze.

_Hedonistic heathen._

They shared a heated glance. Only a single name dropped off of John’s lips. He knew that name wasn’t purely to blame, John was caught in Simon’s headlights. After a gruelling couple minutes in silence, John shifted to brace the headboard again and bounce Barbarella on his knee. He couldn’t hold Simon’s gaze: couldn’t put his hand into the flame.

John refused to move. Simon refused to argue.

“When she’s asleep,” was all that was said with Simon halfway to the door.  
  


***  
  


Two sniffs. Whirlwind of powdered rage and emotion.

Hobbling back into the living room, tinged black with the night, John strolled to his sofa and took a seat. He heaved out a deep sigh, running a hand through his silky hair. For the first time in a long time, he hadn’t pulled any of it free. He voiced that with a small smile to himself, glancing at his bare palm.

The room was deadly silent, save for the passing jingles his noir bangles made as he placed his hands in his lap and fidgeted.

Nick was back from a day at the studio. The slump in his shoulders and his bare face, still perfection, screamed his frustration and tiredness to John. John didn’t ask. Nick didn’t say.

His gaze crept over to Simon, who was lounging directly opposite him. He was laying back in the armchair, legs and arms crossed, looking nowhere in particular: staring right through John.

Simon was first to break the ice. John was the titanic, slamming straight into his _Lady Ice_.

_Here we go again._

Within moments his tears were streaming, he was cursing everyone and everything that moved. His hormones, the tiredness, the excruciating pains he still felt in his back and his sore nipples amplified that. He struggled to keep talking, he sniffled and stuttered his way through his speech.

  
_I’ve got more than fucking flowers in my brain..._ _That may just be the weirdest lyric by far, the shit is wrong with you?!_

Once again John felt so isolated, he couldn’t bear to be the fish caught in that _Arcadia_ tuna net. Two sets of darkened eyes, heightened by the murky shadows that cascaded a blue light on them all. Still, the hazel gaze was piercing and the blue was lost amongst the crowded black irises: signalling him out; judging him all at once.

Then, John steamrolled straight over the hard part. What made it worse was that he knew he could afford it but it was a matter of principle. A matter of whether he was right to splash it out alone.

“Four hundred. Thousand. Dollars.”

John’s voice was small. “ _Five_.”

“Five?! How in the bloody hell did you spend five hundred _thousand_ dollars in less than a year here, John?!” Simon growled, Nick could barely bite back his words. “The fuck have you been doing, baby?!”

Silence.

John was leaving painful silences where there should’ve been retorts. The three of them all dodged the same name, the _bandit_ was _flaky_ enough already. Where even was he? Why had John been alone since Christmas? When was he coming back?

_Was Barbie too damn much for him? The asshole._

_Was I?_

It plagued John with immense guilt, constantly, he couldn’t lie. Nor could he shake the savoured thought of the man from him. His name blared through his mind, over and over, somehow highlighted in a crumbling white substance as John rolled up his own disarrayed thoughts and snorted them into next week.

_Did I push him to his limits, like I did—_

Remaining unspoken between the two _Arcadia’s_ and the one remaining _Power Station:_ each man upped to their feet, some paced and some remained still. Desperate to understand John’s words, his screams and cries: knowing full well that whatever band they may have had left, was well and truly hanging in the balance. It was no longer up to them.

If John, his best friend, fellow guitar freak, partner in drug raving crime, Taylor couldn’t keep him here; then what chance did Simon have? And Nick, of all people?


	8. Who Knows Where To Find The True Heart

Thankfully John also had a wall phone. The one laying on the luxe, glass table beside the sofa had been a victim to his latest bout of frustration. Flung halfway across the room, almost killing Nick in the process.

Wordlessly, the keyboardist bent down to retrieve it, glossy blonde hair catching the candle light as he did so. John paused, taking a brief inhale as he studied Nick bent over, shuffling on his knees to collect the ruined phone. And parts of said ruined phone.

“Fuck! They’ll bill me for that crap too.” John groaned, plonking himself down into a heap on the sofa.

He heard Nick murmur something, something that vaguely resembled John’s sweat crate. He snorted, that was his only response.

“Probably the most manual labour you’ve done in your life, Bates.” Okay yeah, that was cold but John wasn’t sure he meant it that way or not.

Nick just eyed him, heavily lined gaze slicing through him. John immediately apologised, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

He cocked his head, eyes searching for the third silhouette. Simon strolled back in, clutching Barbarella tight. A stern face was plastered to him, eyes not exactly meeting John’s.

Biting into his bottom lip, fighting with himself to not let his beaten fingernails take his own wrath, John ground out. “He won’t bloody answer.”

John turned, as the weight of the sofa dipped. As if on cue he held out his arms, eager to take his daughter into his grip. His hands were still trembling, sweat slick and trembling. John knew, he was almost certain, that as soon as Barbarella made contact: his anxieties would begin to bleed away. They’d bleed into something softer, giving him the much needed chance to breathe.

Simon didn’t follow John’s silent order. His plea.

He lifted Barbarella onto his left shoulder, so now she was further from John than before. Her tiny eyes were wide, full of wonder and she was more than eager to explore. She wore a teeny black headband with a huge, gaudy, Rose stuck to it. John couldn’t help but smile like a loon at that, itching to throw himself round the back of the sofa and bop down before her. Bop her tiny nose and poorly serenade her.

The heat between he and Simon stopped him from doing so.

He began bobbing his leg, irritably shifting position. Rubbing at his arms. Nails raking over them.

“He’s not there,” John whined, finding it suddenly hard to focus on a single spot. “I caught his damn secretary again. Bastard won’t take my call for shit!”

John’s bleary gaze was suddenly cloudy. He could see lips moving but he couldn’t hear a damn thing. All that he could hear was a sudden, shrill ringing in his ears, his eyes snapped shut and he hissed violently at it: crumbling into a small ball. He lurched forward, slapping a hand on his knee, determined to shake himself from it.

To no avail. He bolted upright, already on his feet. He knew exactly where he was heading, knew exactly what he needed.

What John missed was the deep glances focused on his jittering figure, he bolted into Barbie’s room and slammed the door behind him.

Back flush with it, breaths coming far too quick, he rammed his head back twice, in quick succession, failing miserably at beating the craving from his deluded mind.

The drawer was calling to him, his million magic crystals were painted pure and white. John leapt over to it, unaware of crashing into the cot or knocking a pile of nappies to the floor. He pawed through it, fingers clumsy as he spewed filth, practically gnawing his way through a bag.

And look at that. Now he’s totally fine.

  
***  
  


They mutually agreed to park it. If, only for tonight.

He released a sigh as he came crumbling down. He was patched back up, encased in smooth hands running up his sides. Igniting sparks, a flame burning bright in his heart. His eyes slipped closed, a moan escaping, as over he bent, craning his neck to fit just where he needed too. The shoulder was strong, the support drawing him in.

**_Who knows, where to find the true heart for Lady Ice?_ **

****

His own arms were shaky, searching for the special spot to land. They trailed, naughty with a mind of their own, up covered skin. Landing on hips, moulding his own into them. He let out another sigh, fully lost in the rhythm: riding out the high of feeling so protected, so loved and adored all at once. He ground his head further, inhaling all that he could and holding the scent. Being driven mad by the warmth, the inviting stance, the closeness between them.

**_Mesmerised, in the candle flame._ **

His vocals continued to drop, to serenade. He felt himself opening up, a slave to the heaven that rolled off of that tongue. He found himself trying to embrace that, his own pitch intermingling with those soft tones of pure seduction. He may not have been doing a good job, his key was totally off but that was how they both loved it, the chest he crushed himself into shook with a small laugh. He would be deluded if he didn’t smile in response.

**_Compromised by the cruel bands of steel around her breast._ **

****

The chorus caressed his ear, a hot breath and he was shivering head to toe. Fully lost in the moment, riding the wave as it crashed onto pleasure shore. Both were wrapped tight, limbs encased in delicious satin and chiffon, both content with keeping it that way.

**_She knows the desolation._ **

****

His lips ran up that neck, small kisses teasing away the sweat that pooled under his own torturous touch. Within moments, he had reached his destination. Every last coherent thought was being sucked from him as he was claimed, held tight, moulding further into the welcome warmth of another tongue.

**_Lover’s arms,_ **

****

No words were said, they didn’t have to be. Breaking away two gazes locked, a content brown on lustful blue, both blearing over by their own want. Carnal need.

**_Their isolation._ **

He let himself be turned, two sets of widened eyes landing on the mirror before them. He didn’t dare to look at himself, he didn’t want too, eyes immediately falling to the man beside him. The man with a hand in his own and a head now resting on his shoulder. Without word, he let a giant smile creep across his face: running gaze up and down the suits they wore, the little nods to their own personalities interweaving.

“Who kno-ows, where to find the true he-art for,” they sang together, holding the note. Stretching it out, moulding their pitch to reach perfection. “La-dy _Iceee_.”

It was torture but he managed to pull himself free. His hand dropped back into the open palm. He wouldn’t be letting go.


	9. Do You Feel The Way, You Wanted To Feel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s about time things got porny. You have been warned.

There was a shaky hand on the limo door, muting the screams and hollers that were already piercing a hole through him. If Barbarella was still inside him, she would’ve done a flip, causing him to lurch for the nearest bathroom, void his guts and have him empty himself of the anxieties, what little food he may have consumed that day. But she wasn’t here, where was she?

_Oh right, Nick. Penthouse. How generous of him._

**DAY: FEBRUARY 14**

**TODAY IS:** Valentines— **PREMIER DAY**

  
He had been desperate for a night out, longing for the parties he so missed.   
  


But now that he had his chance, something was off. He refused to admit it to be ‘guilt.’ 

  
_Does she miss me? What if she wants me and..._

John fumbled momentarily with the door handle, only to be pulled aside by another, much more steady grip. He relished in the feel, the insecurities dissipating into the air around him. John suddenly remembered how to breathe, in and out, nice and slow, as he caught a mischievous glance to his right.

  
_I can’t be there to hold her?_

To hell with it, he couldn’t have him for hours. And sometimes, John reminded himself: all you need is now.

He crushed his lips into Simon’s, hands trailing down his blazer, hands ruffling his hair. The kiss was quick, deep: John was sickened by the rush it bought, dizzy with the heat of Simon’s tongue. The touch of Simon’s lips.

Panting, disheveled, together they ran quivering digits to attempt at smoothing out their ruined hair; John grimacing as he pawed through the grease.

“You ready, John?” Simon’s voice was light, gaze firmly on the flush of John’s cheeks.

John opened another button of his shirt, baring his chest. His hands yanked at his mullet, sweeping his fringe from his face. That was the only answer Simon received.

The bassist was the first out, diving headfirst into the _heads turning, lights flashing out,_ fray. He was petrified, desperate to hide it. To hide it behind his no longer so cocky guise, behind the man who stood at his side.

It wasn’t as though he and Simon had formally ‘come out’ or ‘revealed’ themselves, whatever the hell the term was, the world didn’t need to know who was the lucky sod that had impregnated the sexiest man in existence but, miraculously, the world was still pretty much in the dark where all that was concerned.

  
“... going to make it big, again?”

After _The Power Station_ tour, John was pretty much untouchable. Near sneaking into hibernation, batting down the hatches, escaping into his own supposed utopia the way—

  
“ _Three_ Durans?”

  
“...better not be.”

John forced the thought from his mind.

“Coming back to Duran…”

It was too painful.

“… need of money?”

He was still scared shitless, if he was honest with himself. For when his song would be released, for the interviews and promotional material came about again that he had been dodging by embracing his sad little hermit crab life.

“Still takin’ off the…”

His weight was a key factor, he was struggling immensely to keep himself covered. He had never looked so bad, podgy and hanging out of all that he owned... he didn’t really have much of an excuse as he had a mere year before.

“Has _daddy_ got baby, tonight?”

John had been wondering endlessly if he was doing all of this for the right reasons, constantly shattered and aching for release, John managed to shuffle through the red carpet without a single word. Almost.

“Is this the father?”

“Is it really time for a solo career?”

“… for a film of this nature?”

“Simon... how’s Yasmin?”

“… honestly thought… had morals.”

“... still going strong?”

“… a new parent; too… _despicable_.”

_Fucking tosser!_

The last one, John broke. Socking the reporter one, the crew surrounding him came to a halt. Guffaws filled the silence, Simon’s own jaw was on the floor. John was in a state of true disbelief, stunned by what he had done.

“Oi! Somebody get that git! _Faggot_.”

He never had been the physical type. Seriously, just look at him.

  
“A _Bond_ flick now this romp... what is it with Duran?”

Or don’t, he’s not the stork he used to be. The stork that made a name, or middle name, for himself all those years ago: using his virtual skin on bone to his advantage.

  
“Will _Arcadia..._ film soundtrack too?”

  
“Three outta three?”

Before he could realise it, thoughts blurring together, John was being ushered away from the reporters. Together he and Simon dove into the crowd, riddled with cast and crew, shifting through to get into the theatre in one piece.

“Who would wanna hear _that?_ ”

This wasn’t even about him, for fuck’s sake. He had seen the romp far too many times, having been sent cut after cut, the film had grown shorter and shorter that he wasn’t even a fan of it anymore.

_Before MGM got their scissors out…_

John braced himself, kept up appearances. Questions rolled about _Barbie this_ and _Barbie that_ , when he would settle down, new music, solo shit, yadda yadda… he was having none of it. Patience running thin, tongue suddenly too big for his mouth he found (more than ready to berate the reporter personally) Simon, his saviour, answering for him.

“New music this year!” Simon beamed, throwing an arm around John’s neck. “We’ve been out _far_ too long, haven’t we Johnny?”

Perking up, “y-yeah.. you know, I think it’s about time Duran took themselves into a new dir- _artistic_ direction.” John stumbled, cursing inwardly.

“Oh, really?” The reporter spoke, fingers in a tizzy to document the juice as Simon carried on talking. John just kept quiet, drifting in and out.

“We’ve grown apart— _up_. Yeah, up. Things change. People change.. you know, we’ve uh, _matured_.”

  
“Well, you did welcome another Duran baby.”

“Nearin’ three, ma’am.”

_That was handled perfectly. Nice job, Taylor._ His mind scoffed.

“John’s absolutely right. The _Arcadia_ and _Power Station_ projects have worked wonders for us all! The time apart, the chance to develop as musicians... it was about time it happened.” They digressed.

Simon was lying through his teeth. 1985 had only caused havoc and heart break, tearing them apart. However, John was touched, once he had shaken himself from his own vile thoughts and remembered the heavenly voice that rolled out of that man. How Simon could remain cool under pressure, lift the mood and make a joke if needs be.

How, once again, he saved John from… well, there were far too many ways that the bassist could end that sentence.

“A _notorious_ return!” Simon teased, John just gaped at him. “To the charts!”

_A what return?_

Celebrities kept coming, he and Simon were caught in a daze. He even managed a photo with Kim and Mickey, chatting her up a little. Laughing when Simon ‘acted’ jealous, determined to take Kim (obviously, nobody else) away from 1984’s Most Fanciable Male. _Smash Hits_ was always to be trusted, true to their word, of course.

“All she wants is your dick.” John giggled, low into Simon’s ear.

_Didn’t I use that before? A lyric?_

He smirked, wagging his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t be the only one now, would she Johnny?”

_Oh yeah. Right. With that cunt._

_Wait, fuck Charlie!_

John coughed, fingering his open collar.

John would be lying if he said that he could cut the sexual tension with a knife. Maybe someday he would have to dance, or just shuffle, for Simon. Backlit by the moon, he’d be heightened by the shadows bought about by the blinds, for Simon.

In silk underwear, for Simon.

_Yeah, someday._

_As I Do What I Do plays? Hmmm.. no. The Chauffeur. Much better. Get off to that voice and lil doot doots_.

Smirking to himself, he almost missed the singer mumbling in his ear. However, he had John’s full attention as he stole a quick kiss in the dim of the theatre. Bottle of champagne that they had inherited from somewhere, in hand.

He broke away, telling Simon to find their seats and he would join him briefly. John strode through the halls, lit only by regal candle light, heading for the bathroom. He slipped into a stall, engulfing a huge breath. Hands fumbling within his suit pocket, he jolted irritably as his irises widened and lips parted. His pulse quickened, erratic, as his cheeks coloured: gaze fixed on the precious contents in his palm.

He poured his salvation, painted pure and white, atop of the toilet and up it went: au natural.

  
***  
  


Submerged in the murky black, no one had caught the singer’s wayward fingers, how John’s own had dipped low and wandered off even further: inching closer and closer to his sacred destination. The sound of the well-known, sure to never be iconic, moans and cries flooded the auditorium. If it wasn’t silent before, now only John’s shaky breaths could be heard.

This was it, his glorified debut.

Simon’s eyes were plastered to the screen, John wanted to laugh but found that he couldn’t. There was something oddly endearing about that, John smiled as the thought ran through him.

_Are you happy now, Charlie._

The moment Simon had had been anxiously anticipating since the torture they were both put through before _Live Aid_ had finally arrived. Impossibly, John was gleaming.

_I did what I did?_

In a scene that irritated John to no end, he honestly had no clue why they chose to use his song here, he watched John and Elizabeth frolic in the rain having beaten off the thugs that called them faggots.

  
Or something of that nature. The film made zero sense.

_Wait. What are they trying to say about—_

Things were getting heated, Kim was burning up on screen. She was the token bimbo beauty, blonde and slim to be paraded about and demeaned. Kim was supposedly everything John (both of them, the bassist and the horny BDSM guy) would want in a sexual object.

_Fuckers. We’ll show them._

Her trousers were yanked off and she was thrown behind a wall. Thoroughly soaked, the Bass God’s moans punctuated each thrust, each groan, the track amplifying the tension as it became unbearable: Kim no, _Elizabeth_ losing herself to her own, pitiful desire.

Simon’s eyes were screwed shut. John could just about make out the way he rocked, embracing the music. Being tortured by his own moans and orgasmic screams, so forced that they both knew it to be utter bullshit. It wasn’t even the completed studio version, an early cut of mostly the female vocal had been swiped by _MGM_. John was still fuming about that.

John hadn’t made any sounds resembling that heightened desire, eyes lolling back and toe curling pleasure in months.

Whether John was ready to admit it or not: surely that would all change tonight, right? They just had too. He’s going slightly mad.

  
***  
  


“So,” John began, rounding the corner of the street in search for their limo.

It was a big night for John after all, not just in terms of work. Other things, more important reunions. When Simon wanted to celebrate he would do so and scream about it, John knowing not to negotiate.

He kept his eyes off of Simon and focused on the road, unsure if he really wanted to try and gauge his reaction to... whatever the fuck they had just witnessed. It was shockingly bad, John wasn’t going to shy away from that.   
  


_If it’ll make it nine and a half weeks in theatre, it’ll be a miracle. Probably won’t even make a month.  
_

“It’s utter trash, ain’t it?” He mumbled, finally catching wind of their chauffeur.

John rattled off the address to the highest apartment building in the city (no matter the cost, he still prided himself in owning that) and watched Simon’s delightful ass dive into the backseat. He stuttered somewhat, a little lost in those tight fitting trousers.

_Could he bottom someday? Do I really want that?_

“Yeah, John. Your song is shockingly bad!” Simon began, nudging him with a chuckle. “How in the fuck did you let _that_ train wreck happen?! There are reasons why I shouldn’t let you out of my sight, you horny bastard.”

Simon was laughing himself hoarse, totally lost in the moment whereas John’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open. Now in the thick of a neon haze, bar within reach, John’s arm shot themselves forward and began rummaging for the whiskey he knew wouldn't be too hard to find.

“Charlie! That wasn’t what I meant and you know it, shithead!” He was a little hurt, he couldn’t lie, calling back to Simon over his shoulder. “I meant.. you know.. erm.”

John grumbled a couple other things that went unheard, heading back to Simon who was perched amongst the plush in the back of the limousine. Instead, it became clear to him, that Simon was basking in the silence.

  
John admired how the blue tinted Simon’s skin, how his features were defined from one angle and highlighted from another. It dawned on him, the similarities between the way the light waltzed it’s way across Simon and how John himself had tangoed with the deep sapphire back on the video set. How, he prayed, the lights had worked wonders for him the way they were with Simon right now.

“Oh.” Simon deflated, John was struck with guilt.

“Yeah, I... I was talking about the film.”

“... I wasn’t.”

“No shit.” It was awkward, John focused his attention to pouring two shot glasses. “Oh, you mother fu—”  
  


His curse was ripped from his lips, swallowed by Simon. The kiss was growing in intensity. Simon was predatory, feral, nipping at Johnny’s bottom lip and demanding entrance. John’s brain turned to mush, resulting to autopilot, letting Simon the fuck in.   
  


The glasses crumbled to the floor, tumblers smashing by his feet. John broke away with a yelp, kicking the glass to one side.

Simon’s lips were back on his, determined to suck him dry. John could barely breathe, failing to meet Simon’s rhythm to lose himself in the singer’s lustful heat. He couldn’t feel a thing, only letting Simon guide him, taunting him with his teasing fingers, ripping seam after seam.

“Please,” he whined, clumsy hands in Simon’s hair, “Charlie, _please_.”

Deft fingers gnawed at the fabric of John’s silken trousers, snaking out his belt and yanking at his zip. John was palmed, gasping, hips jerking upwards into the light touch. Desperate for more, deluded in thinking that this was enough.   
  


The touches became rougher, the ministrations calculated yet mind blowing. John keened, thrusting upwards, inwardly begging for Simon’s fingers to slip under the final restraint and tear them away from John’s aching body.

“ _Fuck_ ,” his voice was scratchy, eyes coated in pure lust, “ _please_ , Char-ugh!”

Those naughty digits had slipped under the fabric, John’s half hard cock springing free. He groaned, lolling his head back, as he was pumped to life. Resurrected. Being given a new lease on it, falling victim to his aching want. He let out a string of moans as the juices began to flow, a harsh swear as they were rubbed back into his skin; deep into the slit, running up his shaft.   
  


His bottom lip was trembling, his adorable overbite exposed as delectable hisses and delicious pleas fell from John’s lips. He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t move his hands. They stayed rooted by his sides as the speed increased, the friction growing harder to ignore. Pleased sighs were dropped around him, telling him he was a good boy and deserved what he would get and then they were kissing again. John threatened to end it, sending them both into a frenzy by moaning into that open mouth and shoving the name of what they were doing down that ready throat.

He whimpered, whined, bucking wild and out of sync. Mind stuttering, head ready to shatter, John broke free to groan himself hoarse. He thrusted a final time before the pleasure crashed over him, he was shivering violently as he tried to drag out the release; pitifully thrusting into his own mess. John was blinded by it, gaze glassy as finally the grip on him fell away, tucked him back in and perched at his side.

John was a mess. A moaning, quivering mess. Caught up in it all, the highs and sudden rush, he found this energy to be intoxicating and he knew, pulling off his shirt to pray, that this wouldn’t be it.

Together, he and Simon, had plenty in store for tonight. A single, shared glance said it all: they both knew precisely which scene they wanted to recreate. John was already tingling with excitement. Wet, with anticipation.


	10. Are You Happy Now, That We Fantasised?

Nearing 2am, shivering, quaking in anticipation, John rose to his knees. They were bare, bruised, he wore white boxers and his shirt was unbuttoned. It hung lose, sleeves rolled to showcase the light muscle he now has on his arms. A single vein popped out, twisting when he did.

  
He was crowded, made to feel small but taken care off. A swift hand caught his hair, brushing it from his eyes. Another deft motion and he bid farewell to his sight, blinded by white. He hissed as the fabric was tightened around him, groaned as those hands began trailing round to his heated cheeks. They were searching for his lips, demanding entrance and to be sucked. John’s beautiful mouth dropped open, amplified with a moan, as he took a single digit in: relishing in the feel; the familiarity.

  
Content with his trust, he was helped to his feet. He was told to keep his hands behind his back, so he did. John let himself be guided, heading throughout his penthouse with cautious and shaky steps. The tiles were frozen, every step he took sent a shiver through him; knowing he was getting closer and closer.

The somber yet stimulating tones of his instrumental track _Dance For Freedom_ began playing in his mind. A track in which he had envisioned suiting this sort of scene perfectly; something soothing for John to cling too. A melody of reassurance, of some sort. The snare crashed and his pulse ran hotter, he was creeping closer and closer.

He was told to stop, to crouch. John followed the order, clinging to the gruff in that usually silken voice. It had dropped in tone, screaming a dominance that thankfully wasn’t in a patronising way. Unlike in the film, John was content here: he knew that he would be taken care off in the right ways. There were plausible reasons for his supposed suffering and besides, he liked it a little rough.

Suddenly, he shivered, running his hands up his arms and fingering at the cotton. He knew where they were, what had just been opened behind him. John tried to steady his breathing, remember how to engulf and release the air without choking as he heard a small clatter; a small commotion. Things were being laid out before him, he was forbidden to touch and shunned to sit on his hands.

He could only use them when told too.

They say when you’re stripped of a sense, your others heighten to try and fill that missing void. John’s sense of taste would prove his saviour here, if smell became the enemy.

Upon hearing those stern words, his mouth dropped open with a small giggle. The scene in the film had that comedic element somewhat, although John wasn’t sure which tone of voice he could be playing with here: that decision wasn’t up to him.

Something small, a grape, was dropped onto his tongue. He bit at it, with a sigh, then swallowed it while being sure to stick out his tongue as proof. There was a pleased little sigh before him. Another clang, plates this time, and John sat there, stock still: hands bound and mouth agape. Ready to take whatever he was given. Only his pants could be heard, the small rises and falls of chest. Looking the way, he wanted to look.

Another item was stuffed into his mouth, he winced.

Something long and hard, he coughed.

Something small and sweet, two of them, then three. He gagged.

Strawberries, he knew they were coming. John bared his tongue, whilst the tip of the fruit was massaged into his welcome warmth. He couldn’t help himself, a pleased moan escaped. He wasn’t punished for it, he decided to chance another. His tongue lapped over the fruit, licking it from root to tip, round and round. He giggled, coughed, and again he opened wide.

He could feel the rise, in temperature and in desire. His underwear was suffocating, stifling him in ways he had never known them too.

He was teased with fruit after fruit, skilled tongue running mercilessly over whatever he was given. John knew what was next, he braved himself to swallow it whole. He had seen the flick enough to know that this part was done with Elizabeth being able to see however John was sure, he wouldn’t be granted such a luxury.

His shirt was slipped from his shoulders, his body tingled as the sudden rush of air proved too much for him. Goosebumps coating his skin, he groaned softly as he felt the familiar heat. The body heat was more than just the right intensity, he was being fried alive: a victim to his own selfish desire.

Something small and round, John winced at the taste. It was sharp, the olive, he tried desperately to spit back what he needed too. He giggled slightly, swallowing the rest whole.

  
A familiar prick down south, John groaned upwards as he thrusted. Desperate for any friction.

Being touched the way; he wanted to be touched, John was shifted so he was now resting on his heels, hands planted on his thighs. His eyes flickered, twitched under the restraint, desperate to know what was coming next.

Something cracked, he shivered as a cool sticky thing ran down his stomach. It smelt awful, John knew exactly what it was. The egg yoke, being massaged into his chest.

He was pelted with juices, a mixture of fresh berries coated his soaked skin.   
  


A hand caressed his face, sending sparks through him that were ruthless: he was more than happy now. The fingers rounded down, skirting over his nude chest and the sweat that pooled there. Then back up, yanking apart his lips. He tipped his head back, being pelted by a liquid. It was thick, running down his chin and dropping into his thigh. He swallowed as much as he could, cool glass making him squirm. He shifted, tapping irritably as he swallowed and spat it back out. He fought the glass down and John felt his stomach churn, he should never down milk that fast.

An endless round of fruit, vegetables, meat and milk later; John was near covered in fluids: mouth trembling, being blinded by the warmth in his stomach and the quake of himself. He was standing proud, the pain now bordering on unbearable; his member brushing maddeningly against the soft fabric. He wanted nothing more that to palm himself, his hands were so damn close to it but knew that if he stepped out of line: he would be suffering the wrath.

The cucumber was perhaps the hardest. John sucked and gagged, giving all that he could. His tongue darted out, trailing its way up and down the length. He bit at it, hard and forceful, gnawing away piece by piece.

John yelped as he felt something smaller, in girth, yet still long enter him. This moved, had a mind of its own, scraping its way down John’s throat. John took it, sucking desperately, taking in another. And another. He was whining with it, erection bordering on mind shattering, as he continued to pump his tongue around the intrusion.

With a grunt, they were swiftly removed. John tried, failing miserably, to brace himself for the next intruder. Something told him, that this was where they would get a little off script. It wasn’t his time to shine anymore.

He cried out, enraged by the straining fabric shielding his eyes and it was wreaking havoc down below. Without warning, he rose up even higher off of his knees and swallowed all that he could. He sucked hard and fast, teeth nipping at the silk he engulfed. It was moving, pumping into John in time with his own wild licks. He stalled for a breath huff of air, before slamming his lips back down onto it. Head bobbing, small wet sounds dropping, John sucked harder than anything he had ever taken in his life.

He was trembling, the sudden rush was burning his throat and dribbling onto his tongue. He pulled off and quickly spat, before returning to it, circling the intruder and running his way up and down it.

John yelped, there were hands in his hair, tugging him every which way. He coughed, struggling to breathe, being violently penetrated as— John gagged, taking it all. The liquid burned hot on his tongue, trickling down his throat and his chin; landing above his now soaked boxers. The ringing in his ears was blearing, he was quivering all over, screaming although no sound came out. He was numb, lost wallowing in sensation: desperate to drag it out.

The intruder pulled away and sent John crashing to the floor. He struggled, fingernails clawing at slick tile, shooting straight down. He caught a hold of himself and pumped the last of his pitiful release, his scream was shrill as his hand was coated white.


	11. You Don’t Have To Live It All, Just Live A Day

“Well _that_ was interesting!”

John gargled in response. He caught sight of Simon at the en-suite door, peering in. If he squinted he could make out a familiar white stain coating the singer’s shoulder. John frowned.

“Turns out, she’s not a fan of cherries.”

“Cherries!”

John hunched back over, voiding his stomach for the third time that morning. He truly felt like shit, skin burning up and freezing over all at once. He was sweating profusely, fringe firmly stuck to his forehead.

“N-no..” he gasped, heaving, “s.. shit, Simon.”

He fell back over the toilet, trying to regain his breath. John ignored the little laugh as it erupted from behind him, swearing as he shakily rose to standing.

“You didn’t tell me you’re allergic to cherries, John.”

“Thought they were strawberries!” He yelled, stumbling a little. “ _Strawberries!_ ”

“Them too. Why’dya have them if you’re not going to eat them?”

“Nick?”

Simon was grinning like mad, John could’ve smacked him.

“I’m not allergic to cherries, you ass.” John stuttered, in dire need of a drink to calm his stomach, “it’s when you… you know, Charlie, uh… ram so much of it down my throat so frickin’ fast! I’m gonna be sick, aren’t I?”

Silence.

“The milk.”

“Well,” Simon began, eyes running all over John’s flushed cheeks and bare chest, “now we know not to let you play with food.”

“You think?!” He screeched.

“Save it, whipped cream and melted chocolate it is.”

  
***  
  


There was still the matter of what John was to do with his little finance issue. The three of them tried profusely, they knew who they needed to hear from but it proved near futile to get a response.

Another week and John had had it, he had already overstayed his welcome and was dying to head back to the UK in one piece.

To make matters worse, _9 ½ Weeks_ was already a flop: a massive loss for _MGM_. John still had promotional material to do, interviews and phone-ins, some of which even involved Simon being by his side. John was backing a losing horse, making it perfectly clear that this was probably the one and only hit he would have solo. At least, in this decade.

Sat opposite a presenter at _MTV_ , who’s name had slipped his mind, he quipped back and forth for twenty minutes or so. All that he did recall was her being a huge fan of his, poorly hiding her sweat as his rambling made her weak at the knees. He scoffed, inwardly, bored by the conversation.

She was determined to get the answers but, in John’s mind, she wasn’t asking nearly the right questions.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Something within him awoke, he perked up.

“Are you looking to settle down?”

Looming into her space, he lurched forward over the tiny table between them.

“There are some…” he always took forever to answer a simple question, John, “ _women_ , in my life- yes.”

She wasn’t so content with that. It was time for him to dig deeper, irritate her further.

“ _No, no, no_ ,” he began, “ _I’m saving myself_.”

She engulfed another breath but John steamrolled straight over her.

“Looks like we’re about outta time, luv. Shall I?”

Pivoting around, the camera closed in on him to purposely capture him from the shoulders upward. He coughed, unable to keep perfectly still but remarkably, whatever the hell running through his veins, he delivered his line.

““ _Well this is my new video, it’s the first time I’ve ever sung on camera and judging by it, it’s probably the last._ ” He sniggered, being the cheeky Chappy the world so missed.

He took a further two strides forward, running a deft hand through his hair, squinting at the auto cue.

“ _This is John Taylor’s new video: I Do What I Do.”_

_***_  
  


The closer he got to March, the more irritated he became. Barbarella was back to waking up twice a night, which was not only proving hell for him but for Simon too. Even though John giggled every time she demanded her daddy’s presence, day by day they both grew more groggy. There was something in the air, _blowing change,_ things were changing in a big way.

The _Arcadia_ boys were about finished with the album, the guys behind _Playing For Keeps_ were thrilled with their contribution to the soundtrack. John had stumbled in on Nick and Simon, speaker phone on, both elated with how well their efforts had been received. John couldn’t have been happier, Barbarella in his grip, as Simon threw down the needle and they celebrated in style.

A night of _Arcadia_ tracks seemed like hell at first, John’s head pounding with the haunting snares, but he quickly found himself getting into it. He admitted, albeit grudgingly, to have never heard the album in full. All nine songs, until this moment.

Simon didn’t look offended, neither did Nick. It went without saying that hearing it was somewhat painful for John. For all three of them. A true reminder of what, _whom_ , the sound that together: the collective Duran had lost.

To quickly lighten the mood John quipped. He was more than convinced that Arcadia had agreed to do a film track inspite of him. Inspite of _Power Station_ who too had another hit thanks to Michael Des Barress and a Schwarzenegger set. Oh and, how could anyone forget, Johnny doing what he do…

His final week of February wasn’t very exciting, as such. Finally, John was gearing up to say goodbye to his (second) gap year: the first having started himself a band, the second having formed himself a supergroup. Surprise surprise, both had their immense success: he was smiling at the memory.

John was pawing through box after box, rambling sweet nothings as Barbarella murmured back to him. She was lolling about on the bed, having fallen in love with the golden sheets and insistent on gripping them at all times. She wailed a little and John dropped his stuff, cursing.

With a huff, he kicked the abandoned box of satin cloaks and shirts aside and shuffled to his king size. She craned her neck, trying to follow his movements. Instead, John stretched himself out, all six feet and one inch, along his side of the bed. The other belonged to Barbarella now, he was happy with that.

“So, what’ll it be today baby?”

She just gaped at him.

John forced an overly quizzical, expressive face. Then, he snapped into action, rolling off of the bed.

He paraded straight to the corner of his grand suite, fingers quivering with the thought of feeling such slick wood and delectable lacquer. It had been far too long, John was aching for her touch. Her familiarity.

Crawling back up to the bed, John hoisted Barbarella up with him. Together they were braced up against the headboard, his clutch on her growing tighter as he fingered his other beauty: bringing his other baby in tight.

His bass baby.

She was stark white; slick and pristine. Coated in a deep noir, she was calling to him. Desperate to be played.

“What’ll it be today, Barbie?” He posed, huge hands fanning about her teeny middle. “I think it’s about time for… wait.”

The tune flooded his mind and his fingers fumbled over it, unsure where to hit and where to accentuate. What to miss, what Barbarella needed to hear.

“Screw it. Cover your ears, girl, mummy’s got a solo for ya!”

Barbarella squealed. That was enough encouragement: John was more than ready to embark on this adventure.

“Max-ee-mum _big_ surprise; she know-wows somethin’ neeew!”

She squeaked, shimmying in his grasp.

He bought his bass in closer, enveloping it around both he and his daughter. Her hands were too tiny, arms not able to reach far enough, to play too. She did however, bang a little on the side of it. Somehow, perfectly in time and the thought of that had John elated.

“I-I, pull ma shirt off’n pray! We’re comin’ up on re-e- _Election Day!”_

John’s hands were running wild up and down his bass, adding it what probably wasn’t the exact right note but what did he know: he didn’t record the damn thing!

“Ow-wow, Re-Election Day-ay-ay!”

What he did know though, as Barbarella seemed to remind him, was that he was doing a pretty swell job. Perhaps he really did have some form of musical ear after all!

“We’re coming up on, Re- _Election Day_ , huh?”

“Holy shit!” John almost dropped both his bass and Barbarella.

His cheeks immediately grew hot, he was already gnawing into his bottom lip. John wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so nervous, why those blinding blues were making him freak out.

“Didn’t even think we had a bassline on that one!”

John stammered out a laugh, knowing Simon was trying to humour him. Of course there was a bass throbbing it’s way through the track, if anything John could hear that and only that. Oh, and the drumming of course. They would always work so well together…

“Huh?” He grunted, placing his bass beside him.

Simon plopped down next to John, splaying his body out atop of the rumpled sheets. John studied him a moment: how his gelled hair landed wherever each strand wanted to go; telling a story or something. How Simon’s golden ring, on his right hand, seemed to gleam even brighter against the golden sheets.

“What?” John asked again, totally lost in Simon’s… everything.

The singer had a wicked expression plastered to his face, not so much in the cheeky sense but more predatory: John had to watch it!

Wordlessly, Simon lurched forward and claimed John’s lips in his own. He yelped slightly, jumping and taking Barbarella with him, before he melted into Simon’s warm embrace.

He always seemed to have the smoke to light John’s fire, to re-light it.

The tinkly sounds of adorable little laughs helped to pull them apart. John watched, shoving his glasses further up as Simon leant down to meet his daughter head on. He pulled stupid face after face, clutching tight at her teeny hands. She was giggling, burning brighter than anything John had ever seen.

His grip around her grew tighter, the more she tried to scurry away. Into Simon’s arms, his bright smile and grabby hands. A pang of guilt filled John, then it graduated into something more. He didn’t know why, didn’t want to think as to why, but he upped and took his daughter with him. Together they sauntered out of his suite and headed straight for his own. Powdered salvation on his mind.


	12. What Am I Supposed To Do, Follow You?

He welcomed March with a round _Virgin_ flight, solo. Although it pained John dearly, he knew she shouldn’t be a part of this. And besides, what fun would six hours on a stuffy flight be with a six month old. He wasn’t even in first class, having had to make some cutbacks after the whole Taylor penthouse fiasco.

Miraculously, a mysterious lump sum had made its way to him and even more enraged than before, he was about ready to burn the place to the ground. John bid New York farewell.

Somehow he had completely ‘forgotten’ that Boy George was just two doors down from him. Had been, the latter half of ’85.

They never partied together, firmly keeping up appearances. Or lack off, as _Culture Club_ had once been a major threat to stealing Duran’s thunder. It wouldn’t have looked so good, enraged the other boys across the Atlantic, to see press clippings of Taylor and George: merrily strung out in the penthouse between their respected own though they both went decades back, before they were both decorating walls across the globe.

Somehow Nick and Simon hadn’t gotten the ‘he does not enter under any circumstances’ memo. Their last night in NYC involved a small get together, tracks of both bands being hammered out together.

John didn’t really remember much of it, he chose not too.

(There was also the incident of a certain miscommunication that still infuriated John to no end: a certain white powdered substance offered at his front door, abandoned on a shiny silver platter. John had been coughing up salt for two days straight after that, not that Simon needed to know).

Back to the present John, thoroughly rattled and close to putting his head through the wall, slumped further into business class: determined to hide behind his circular frames and greasy hair. He hadn’t shaved, looked to be wearing pyjamas as a thick, stripy white and baby blue shirt encased his not so lanky frame. He shoved his huge hands into his barely there pockets and slipped his eyes shut, blocking out any and all things in his path.

More often than not John was the first to hit the hay on planes. Not today though, he was too wired. Jittering, head ticking, he threw his gaze to the window and began counting clouds. How the clouds jived merrily around him, shining bright in oranges and pinks. Blues and purples. Even a sweet green, not that he was much a fan of the latter.

He shook his head, having caught wind of something. It was moving, tinted grey in the light. Another shake and the whole set was burning up before his shielded eyes.

There was a figure, riding the wing. No, laying on a soft puffy thing that was spewing rainbows! He looked to be quite serene, content with just lolling back there. He was dressed in a fine blue. Azure. In something that surely made a little ‘swishing’ sound when he moved. Another shake and he had vanished, John was now prancing to the window determined to find him.

Then, John screamed. _Night Boat_ style.

Two beady eyes, no longer a warm chocolate brown singled on his. From outside. Hands were clawing at the window, on both ends, Taylor to Taylor, deafened by the blasts of thick drum beats. Harsh basslines. Rounded off with a killer six string.

John screamed again, upping from his seat and running to the back of the jet. Each window, he was there. Looking more and more decrepit, wasting away, with each glance John chanced.

The final window and he caught the figure. He began to slip away, azure blazer now tossed over his shoulder. He didn’t have any shoes and his shirt had disappeared, his clothes were shredding all around him.

Bare feet shuffled through the thick, slowly crumbling. Dissipating into nothing, lost amongst the white.

John called to him, running back up to the last window. Palms up, his forehead was burning up now laying upon the thick glass.

He was gone.

John tore himself away.

Chest heaving, face doused in sweat, John yanked open the bathroom door and locked himself inside.

He fell forward, shaky hands clawing at the tiny mirror that hovered above the metal sink. He was fishing through his pockets, rapid, plagued with further guilt as his hands reached his destination.

Hurrying, mouth and hands in a frenzy, he shakily poured out all that he could, leaning over to inhale and—

The lights flickered, fast. On. Off. On. Off.

A single glance.

John hollered.

The figure appeared ghostly, trapped behind the thick glass. His palms were up, leather pressing against it. His eyes were no longer aflame, having returned to a usual dark, irises crowded and dimmed red from tears.

“The hell is this? What’re… you doing here?” John yelled, shaking like a leaf riding out the storm. Hurricane.

The tiny toilet was shaking, dimmed red and black, flicking between the two. The lights turned neon, strobe lights dancing rapid all around him: blinding him and John was seeing stars.

“Wh-what,” he trembled, not daring to raise a hand, “is _happening?!_ ”

His own tears were near streaming, he fought with himself not to smash the mirror with his quivering fist.

“Why-why, are you here? What do you _want_ from me?!”

The silence was maddening. John, a quivering mess was holding on far too tight. To what, he wasn’t sure.

“ _Wild. Boys. Always. Shine_.”

A flash of white smoke and he caught John’s bleary gaze again. He was going down with the screams, the flames igniting all around him.

“Don’t they, John?”

John flung himself to the door, pinned to it, blinking rapidly and desperate to stable his pulse. His cheeks were wet, his legs giving out beneath him. He crashed to the floor, the voice ringing through him, shrill and weak: unlike nothing John had ever heard from the man.

Lying in a crumbling heap, he was banging his fist on the floor content on beating the voice away. Strangling it, throwing it. Taking himself with it, plagued in his own guilt.

  
***  
  


Hurrying through LAX, John fumbled with his luggage and dived through arrivals. No one seemed to notice him, perhaps he was a nobody here. The thought was oddly appealing, he’d have to keep that in mind.

Landing in the car park, he squinted for sight of anything vaguely familiar. He had a limousine of some sort, or at least some fancy sports car in mind.

His thoughts were interrupted as he jumped, whirling around to greet the man at his left. The Chauffeur.

John was still seeing every colour of the rainbow. The man was dressed in the finest of silks, uniform gleaming gold and he twinkled: amplified by the fairy lights. John was caught in a trance, being lured into the intoxicating flame as the horny moth. He fluttered over, mouth agape and luggage in hand. Together they flew throughout the street, diving headfirst into something much more darker. Less glittery and scary.

There was a slam, he whipped around trying to find it. The door handle. To no avail, oh well. John whittled his way in further, now overcome by flashing neon. Dancers, with wild hips were swinging side to side. Heels thudded with each beat, lightning bolts erupting all around him.

“Tula!” He giggled, eyes wide, “where have ya been? I’ve missed youuu!”

There. He saw it. He ran straight over, knocking his head on something and shrinking to the ground. The ground, that was glowing beneath him. Each step he took was amplified by another lightning bolt, John was dancing his way through.

“Hey, mon!”

“ _Dude!_ ” John called back, gaze heavy.

There was something before him, pasty amongst the sea of sudden black. _Where had Tula gone?_ She wasn’t strutting anymore, guiding John to his seat.

“ _Whitley Bay fucker!_ ” He hollered, arms open wide.

There was a muffled reply. It came from the snake by John’s side. His eyes were shielded, spitting rather foreign venom.

“Whereee.. too then?”

At some point, he was being ushered out. He plodded towards some gravelly steps, repeatedly losing his footing and cackling when he felt a hot touch. Stabling him, hoisting him back up.

The night bled into raving guitar solos, wild drumbeats and bottle after bottle. John, coming back down to Earth, was no longer so content. So uppity, he kicked out and headed for the table.

“So..” he huffed, clearing the pathway with his nostrils, “dude.. what’dya.. wha-whatdya think!”

John threw his head back, shaking the hair that momentarily blinded him. Or was that the lack of contact lenses?

“You love it, maaaan. I know you dooo!” He chuckled, hands fumbling for another cut. “ _Fuck!_ That’s the stuff.”

A ruffle from behind him. Another guitar. Another hit, John was mighty fine.

Sensing that John was losing it, drifting further away from the task at hand: he found himself crawling. On his knees, mouth agape, a minxy crawl back up to the sofa, scraping by bottle after bottle.

“L-listen,” he burped, “ahem, just… just _trust me one more time dude._ ”

They were chatting non stop, laughing and joking over pretty much everything. John rode out the possibilities, smile going from ear to ear. He celebrated with a final line, fully aware of being watched. Admired, he preferred admired.

“ _Listen to the drum sound, man. We need you!_ ”

Oh yeah, he’s totally fucking in. John was more than pleased with his work.

Sometime past 2am, John was hobbling back out the front door. Together they barked lyric after lyric, John’s fingers working wonders as he thoroughly beat his way through _Get It On_ , marking out his notes.

It had been a notorious reunion indeed.

***  
  


John partied hard for a few days, or tried too. He was determined to make the most of his time alone: beer in hand, soaking up the sun.

The flight back was interesting. John awaited anxiously for his visitor. Riding the waves, drumming wildly atop his thigh, he caught sight. He stiffened, straightening up.

He appeared much more relaxed this time. Simply lolling in his chair, bottle of champagne in hand.

“To our _Careless Memories_.” There was a toast, John joined in.

He took a brief moment to scan the figure, gray-ish skin bared because of the tank top he wore. That was as far as John got, again he had vanished from his sight.


	13. You’re So Lonely In Your Nightmare, Let Me In

Taking a black cab, head never screwed on straight, he rattled off a somewhat foreign address and together they braved it: hoping someone would open the damn door at almost 3am.

The taxi driver had the radio on, not that John could really hear anything. Duran wasn’t playing, nor were _Arcadia_ for that matter, so he wasn’t listening.

Duran hadn’t been playing anywhere for a while now.

He practically fell out of the black cab, bags at his feet. He stood before a familiar haunt, the apartment sky scrapers staring down and taunting him. Mocking him for having caught the dark side of it, the other illuminated by the moon. The apartment he needed should’ve been in that light, more than awake and ready to see him.

If John squinted, which seemed pointless with his eyes, perhaps he could make out which lights were on and which were off.

If John could admit to himself, admit that he knew exactly how many windows up and across led to his destination; then he would have his answer.

He also prayed, otherwise he’d be saving it till the morning after, that he was in. Not in his other house in Putney. That they both were in, sleeping soundly.

John wasn’t quiet nor was he cautious, riding up thirteen floors surrounded by a litter of luggage that had miraculously followed him to the lift. Upon the familiar ding of the door, he half kicked the bags out and shuffled himself out: thrusting himself deep into the poorly lit corridors.

John could walk it blindfolded. He had walked it blindfolded, Durans in hand, up to his usual tricks.

Even more miraculously, he embraced the silence he embraced. After banging on the poor door.

The lights were on, blinding, the whole apartment was up and buzzing. No, crying. Something within John snapped, dropping whatever he may or may not have been holding as he slammed the door shut and paraded throughout the living room. He followed those cries, the rhythm falling and stuttering as he realised he was going the wrong way, the rhythm picking up and intensifying as he spun on his heel.

John paraded straight into the guest bedroom, dazed and confused, not bothered about making a racket or unsettling her further.

He was a rumpled heap, jet lagged and aching all over. He didn’t need any of this but supposed he deserved it. He had been away from them for far too long.

“Holy fuck!” He breathed.

John fingered his glasses, letting them fall off of his face so he could clean them. He let his world grow fuzzy, throwing him for a loop before he slid them back on. Focused and refocused. John swore again.

Barbarella was still shrieking, red in the face. Two slender hands were on her, rocking her back and forth. Two beautiful lips were shushing her, the sound so eloquent that it made John’s stomach flip.

They weren’t doing a good job, as John’s frustration seemed to voice. The tiredness in his stance and slump in his shoulders as he dared to take a small step closer, arms twitching from the lack of contact.

His stomach dropped as his bleary brown eyes locked into a set of red-rimmed, dimmed and dreary ones. Furrowed brows, a firm frown in place.

At that moment there was a heat at his back, he tensed. John threw himself around, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward. Caught between the father of his child and the woman who had undoubtedly been trying to calm her all night.

John wouldn’t move, he just couldn’t. He was caught in the crossfire, a trance perhaps, clinging to the shrill screams and wails that deafened him in the small space.

It took him a whole five minutes to realise he was being spoken too. Checked over. Hands running all down his sides and back.

For him to realise that he was crying out all the liquids running through his beaten body.

At some point, his quivering arms has lurched forward and silently demanded that she be handed over, screaming her own throat raw. Their tears were somehow in sync, matching in ferocity as Barbarella screamed and John felt the floodgates burst another bank.

She was handed to him, the woman was both beaten down and defeated. Perhaps near as much as John. Mr _Jet Set._

As soon as he felt the heat, John’s winter let Barbarella back in. He was sobbing uncontrollably now, clutching to her as tight as he could: unable to think or speak of anything more than:

“Baby!” His voice trembled, hands losing purchase on her tiny frame, “I’m sorry… mummy is, is _so_ sorry.”

John didn’t care that he was being watched, scrutinised. His figure was growing even more shady, tired eyes desperate to bore into him but they couldn’t anymore. At his front or his back.

John kept murmuring into her ear, feeling her vocals drop to a croak and to mere sobs. He shushed her, patted her, kept stumbling through his few words.

Within moments, tears being swiped away, Barbarella was falling asleep again. Teeny fingers clutching at John’s hair, content on bringing his curls with her into dreamland.

John was shaking in disbelief. Face stained with tears, cheeks burning up, he felt a strong hand land on his shoulder. Another softer hand helped him support Barbarella’s head, helped John to get the angle. Terrified of dropping her, from letting her slip through his fingers again, he let himself be guided to the bed. He let himself collapse, let both of them take his and his daughter’s weight.

A disarray of whispers, John couldn’t formulate them right. He couldn’t hear them, couldn’t lean in or ask for them to repeat himself. Whatever had been said didn’t matter, John would still stumble over what he wanted to say.

Rocking Barbarella in his arms, burying her precious face into her blanket, John turned to face him. Then her. Then him. Then her. Then Barbarella, snoring softly between them.

“T-tha- ahem,” John cleared his throat, “thank you Simon.”

The singer, backlit by the moonlight pouring in through the window, appeared puzzled. John didn’t want to read into that look.

He craned his neck, bangles jingling as he shifted slightly.

John didn’t try to stumble out an explanation, an apology. The sudden shift in mood was a relief, his very presence shaking things up for better as opposed to worse: for once.

He swallowed his pride, face wet and tears threatening to stain him again.

“Thank you, _Yasmin_.”


	14. And I’m Hungry Like The Wolf

John had collapsed onto Simon’s sofa, Barbarella snoring softly against his breast. He had barely slept, rocking her back and forth with wide eyes and an open mouth. Little lyrics dropped off of his tongues as he rocked, rolled, almost disturbed as he clutched his daughter tighter and tighter.

Simon had tried with might to stay awake. John, still deflating harshly from his weeklong high, encouraged him to sleep with his own droopy kisses. Letting Simon nod off before him, to the sound of John’s poor voice.

The man was shattered. Barbarella hadn’t given him the gift of a kip all week. Nor had she graced Yasmin with such a luxury.

John hadn’t felt such a guilt.

He powered through the powder and jet lag, slumping into Simon’s newly renovated kitchen. He slid across his island bar, pulling up a stool and cradling Barbarella. She was smiling today, both to the relief of John and Simon, ever so happy and giddy. Trying to clap. Trying to bang her teeny fists on the sleek, noir table. Somehow riding on little sleep herself, riding out the high.

John, somewhat still raving, was bouncing her in his lap. He guided her tiny arms, her tiny hands, to the table top and began tapping lightly. Content on composing his own rhythm, the melody.

“Do, d-do _do_ , d-do _do_ , d-do _do_ , do do do, do _doo_.”

Barbarella let out a pleased squeal, making John’s heart clench.

“Do, d-do _do_ , d-do _do_ , d-do _do_ , do do do, do _doo_. Sing it Barbie!”

“Sorry?”

John threw his head up.

“Oh, damn! I didn’t mean too—”

John steamrolled straight over her.

“—Don’t apologise, join me.”

“No, no, I wouldn’t want to wake Char—”

“—In touch with the ground, I’m on the hunt I’m after you _John_.” The voice was grouchy.

John stiffened, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. A full body shiver overtook him, Barbarella again shimmied with a little burst of excitement in his grip.

“She’s on the hunt, she’s after _you_ Daddy.” John chanced it, a little shit eating grin gracing his worn down face.

He swung his gaze to Simon. Bleary eyed, rumpled hair Simon. His dressing gown was hanging loose, exposing a slither of tanned skin. Plus a small golden chain was fighting to catch its share of the limelight.

John could’ve fainted.

“Smell like I sound. I’m lost and I’m freaking tired.”

Rallying the troops, “and I’m _Hungry Like Wolf!_ ” John joined in, both covering their ears. “Aren’t I Barbie?” He asked her, nodding profusely, “yes, yes I am.”

Her merry vocal flowed through the kitchen, adding light to John’s darkness, brightening up both John and Simon. Yasmin, the trooper, had put on her best front page smile which John had quickly come to learn was her. All of her, so genuine. She was so open, a stunner with a dreamy smile, dramatic pout and infectious laugh to betray such dominating energy.

Thankfully, the three of them kept mute on his breakdown just hours before. The singer and model were yet to deliver the blows of their week without him. His darling Barbarella’s first week without him, it had proven so different and gut wrenching from when John was touring with the Power—

_Fuck me!_

Barbarella was caught up in his bangles, trying to grasp at them, mesmerised by the shining silver that broke its way through the harsh black. John’s gaze fell to his left arm, bringing it up so he could jingle his wrist.

He stared intently, watching how his daughter followed each movement. How she squealed and flailed about, wallowing in the ‘fun.’

She had a couple toys on the table but she wasn’t having any of that. John’s bangles and shaggy mullet were much more exciting!

For John however, the sight of them was splitting his heart in two. His bangles, his bracelets, were a reminder of his past. Accessories he had adopted during his summer abroad, during his summer jolly of shredding guitar solos and too many lines to count. The summer without Simon, trying to make it on his own and realising that he just couldn’t. He had never pushed to be the front man, he had been pushed by far too many other important men in thick rimmed glasses with handlebar moustaches and fancy silk suits for that post.

A man like John didn’t like to look back. Although it pained him dearly, would pain Barbarella dearly: they had to go. _Power Station_ had to go.

He had to let go. Find himself today, embrace this moment.

He didn’t need any remnants of last summer here, that’s what Barbarella was for. Her beaming face, her teeny chuckles.

Her mere presence, keeping John from going mad in his self isolation and loathing.

John was bought out of his solemn daydream but the whiff of something so familiar, so missed.

“Yassie, you’re an absolute angel.” John’s gaze landed on Simon, animated as ever, reeling her into a half hug.

She had a pan in hand, pancakes atop of the table. John had grown rather fond of her cooking, be it from her home country or the less exotic, classic grub she could rustle up and make him smile.

Simon slid a plate of pancakes into the middle of the bar, now covered in a disarray of berries and syrups. John fingered a plate, dropping two pancakes onto it, before bringing it even closer.

He was laughing, throwing his head back as Barbarella honed in on her new, accidental target. She shimmied out of John’s grasp, tiny eyes broadening as the whiff of fresh fruit filled the air. John could’ve sworn, she hadn’t been this excited in a while.

“No! N-no, _no!”_ John failed at getting his food around her. “Not for you, luv!”

“Wait,” Simon perked up, “do that again.”

“Huh?” John gaped, pausing mid pancake roll.

“Just do it, John.”

John flickered his gaze between Simon’s suddenly stern face and Yasmin’s more confused one.

“Uh, okay?” John momentarily wrestled with Barbarella for his pancake, “no, no.”

“ _Notorious_.”

Within moments he and Simon were drumming on the table.

“No-no, Notorious!”

Within moments he and Simon were spewing all sorts of random words, faffing with rhythms as Simon raised and lowered his voice and working on his pitch.

John caught the glimpse in Yasmin’s eye. She had zoned in on Simon and, much like the bassist, seemed enrapt in his trance. She was smiling, beautiful features heightened as her bed hair fell into her eyes and her laughter fell free.

John found himself joining in, now enrapt with the model and her beauty. Once again, infected by another special female and her mere presence.

  
***  
  


It took John the better part of a week to vacate Simon’s apartment and leave him there. It was painful for them both, to watch him finally shuffle out the front door with Barbarella whimpering in hand.

John had tears in his eyes, his new streaks of blonde falling into them. He couldn’t hide behind them as he may have wanted too, Simon would see straight through the bassist and his bullshit. At the door he paused, whipping back around on his heel to catch Simon’s plush lips in his.

The taxi ride back was unsurprisingly long. John had Simon on his mind, wondering what he would be getting up to today. What he and Yasmin had in store for John’s next visit. Then out of nowhere _A View To A Kill_ beat its way through the car stereo and John breathed a momentary sigh of relief at hearing those blaring synths.

Sadly that relief, that high, didn’t last long as Barbarella was growing restless, in need of a feed.

“C’mon girl,” he bought her in close, “not too long now, you know?”

London, or at least the Western region John was currently in (he still couldn’t name it) was at a standstill.

He groaned in frustration as Barbarella sobbed in desperation.

“Baby, _please_ don’t.”

John gave a guilty grin, more than ready to sock the driver one if he said no. He was paying the black cab asshole plenty. He would be feeding his daughter.

“Not here,” he whined, bouncing her slightly.

The transition between breast milk and formula, or whatever the hell was coming next, wasn’t running so smoothly. Apparently, John was yet to really pick up on what Simon and Nick had to say on that matter.

John swallowed his pride, desperate to cover his ears. Barbarella’s cries were growing shrill, piercing straight through him. His heart was in a vice, twisting as she did in his grip. Not even the jingle of beloved bangles that encased his slender wrist could soothe her, that hurt him more so.

John chanced a glance out the window, barely dulled in the infamous downtown black cab. He was shaking, embarrassed and flushed for he had never fed her on his supposed home soil in public. Not that he was in really out in public per se but a total stranger, cursing, had to sit there and hear her drown on. Internally laughing, John was sure, at how pathetic of a mother he was being in that moment: without being able to comfort her.

“Can I?” John stuttered, he couldn’t say anymore.

The driver nodded again and John could’ve cried.

He fumbled with his shirt, hands trembling slightly. He took note of the quiver, how the very hungry baby in his arms had to wait somewhat.

John’s mind was in a tizzy, she wouldn’t latch on. He wasn’t holding her right, or something, he was still shaking.

John was flush with embarrassment, undoubtedly there were eyes on him even within the confinement of the taxi. They still hadn’t moved, leg bobbing irritably just itching to roll forwards. He had always been an incredibly impatient man, frustration quick to grow as his baby fumbled in his grip.

Finally, Barbarella latched on and John broke into a sweat.

He whispered, voice more vulnerable than before, his usual. “Is anybody hun- _gry?_ ”

There was a momentary pause, a moment. A sacred moment ringing in his head, those same words dropping in tones of blue and silver clad in too many chains and wristbands. John let slip a rueful smile.

John cradled her head, humming. He tried fruitlessly to calm his nerves, more pissed at himself for letting his guard down and opening up so. The heated gaze from the driver was kept firmly forward as John tried to hide her under his satin cloak, to little avail.

“What the, shit!” John spat.

All through the rear windows, lights were flashing. Bright white, slicing through the glass panes and straight through him.

“Fuckin’ _tossers!_ ” He hissed, throwing his head forward.

Trying to duck the blinding light, the insistent flashes penetrating deep. John swore again, hunching over, shivering with Barbarella falling from his grip.

John couldn’t escape, the car couldn’t move anywhere. All he could do was curse an endless blue streak, tears threatening to fall, as Barbarella sucked and the press sucked at him. Sucking his life force, his _reputation_ , dry.


	15. I Stayed The Cold Day

The pain, embarrassment, rage and whatever the hell else was still coursing through his aching veins. Pinning him down, shutting him up. He sprinted from the black cab to his apartment building, bags all around him, dodging vile camera after camera, asshole reporter after reporter. They honed in on John, leaving their own news crews behind in the standstill, miles away from nowhere when the wind still carried John’s name.

He had hastily tucked Barbarella in, trying to protect her through the thin layer of satin he wore. He tried to protect himself, his shape and weight, fighting a losing battle to escape the crowd at his back.

They were still screaming at him, hollering him to come back down and talk. Demanding he speak up.

Never, in all the months of Duran’s declining success, would John have imagined he would be welcomed ‘home’ like this.

It was nothing new, he supposed, be it his house or here in his London apartment. Scratches on his cars were normal. Underwear being sent up in the mail was normal. Flowers, bottles and candles outside were normal. Screaming fans throughout the night was a form of normality that John finally thought he could live without, treasure no longer having.

It would be proven ever so fast that again, he was wrong.

John and the taxi driver stumbled up quick to his floor. Barbarella was shivering and squealing, John’s own tears near matching hers in terms of ferocity at which they fell. He hadn’t regained much control over himself, his hormones were still thrashing him about anyway they wanted too.

He clutched her tighter, whispering endlessly. Anything to calm her down as together they kept on running, dodging door after door as up they came. And came. And came.

A little further and security were called. Sirens were blaring not that John could hear them. He tried to pace himself, struggling for breath. He knew the drill, knew what they would be doing to those who _dared_ to ascend to his floor. He couldn’t help but panic, hands quivering around Barbarella as she flailed in his grasp.

The taxi driver could go no further, leaving John and Barbarella with their luggage a clutter around him, at the end of a long and windy corridor. Which would lead straight to where he should be calling home.

It was the furthest thing from _home_ now.

He dropped a smile, it was small and his bottom lip was trembling. John fumbled for his wallet, whimpering before he was stopped. The man laid a hand on his, forcing him to delve into his pockets no further. The driver flashed him a grin, a wink, before retreating. Before disappearing into the thick of the hell once again John had inadvertently caused.

Rounding that final corridor, panting and choking on his own tears, John rammed himself into the wall. Back flush with it, he struggled to steady his breathing. Tears still flowing wild, his knees gave way and down the wall he sank: full of shame.

He collapsed into a small ball, sobbing endlessly as his baby did the same. John’s fingers were clawing at her tiny body, bringing her in even closer and kissing all over her tiny face.

“I’m sorry baby… I’m _sorry_ ,” was the only thing John remembered how to say.

Unless Barbarella was concerned, that didn’t happen very often.

Amidst another pitiful downfall, John almost missed the voice as it flowed down the corridor. It was soft, perky, full of warmth. Ever so ashamed, wiping poorly at his face, John fought with himself to bring his head up and to search for it. To land on those soft eyes and stop himself from just _bawling_.

Another body was cramped into a tight ball, like him. This one was right beside his front door. They had given up on waiting for him, he was sure, frustrated for him not being there. Forgetting that he was meant to be there.

The realisation dawned on John, why they were there as he struggled to his feet.

He couldn’t apologise to them both, it was one or the other. Barbarella won that without saying another word.

Bags discarded, most having already been couriered over before, John straightened up and began the lengthy shuffle over to the door. His eyes were blurring over again, dimmed red as the jitters began and his tongue fumbled over what he could say.

The water banks burst a final time and John threw himself and Barbarella into those open arms, crumbling on those small shoulders.

“ _Renée_.”

  
***  
  


John was as white as a sheet, having collapsed onto his leather sofa in the middle of the living space. The model held Barbarella, trying endlessly to shush her, placing her over her bare shoulder and bouncing the baby slightly.

Barbarella seemed to listen to the softness of the model’s voice, her squeals dulling themselves into choked of sobs as Renee rocked her little frame back and forth. As Renee kept a deft hand on John’s knee, massaging it, desperate for him to calm down too: to use her and her welcome warmth.

John shuffled in closer, right beside her. She shifted to bring Barbarella onto her right shoulder, giving John access to her left. Without word, sniffles and hasty breaths, John lay his heavy head atop of it; mullet strands falling all over the place.

They remained in silence, breaths falling in time as John crumbled at her side. Renee gifted John all the time he needed to let it out and to patch himself back up.

His hands remained in his lap, his face ground into her shoulder. The tears were pricking at his droopy eyelids again and somehow, as always, Renee was a step ahead and could sense it.

Knowing immediately what to do, holding the now sleepy six month old, she handed Barbarella over to John who’s eyes lit up, going wide, a small smile tugging at his pinky lips.

John bought his baby in close, letting her drift away atop of his left breast. Letting her fall asleep in time to his heartbeat, still erratic, as Barbarella’s mere touch steadied him: bringing him back down to _Planet Earth_ , him bop-bopping with her.

He startled, upon feeling Renee’s soft touch on his knee again. She was grinning, full of beauty and pride, as John matched her smile with one of his own. A silent _thank you_ dropping from his lips.


	16. With A Lonely Satellite

When John’s head began to clear, after putting Barbarella down for a nap, he trudged his way back into the living room; smile tugging at his lips as Renee greeted him.

He was nervous, he couldn’t lie, barely remembering why she was here in the first place. What he owed her, even now, the _deal_ they had going.

“ _Leaves unanswered with a question mark_ , doesn’t it?”

“Huh?” John gaped, like a little crackhead staring down his next line.

Was she the line? What he wanted to huff straight up and live straight through?

“John, how are you feeling?”

No, no she wasn’t.

“Uh, you know…”

“Shattered?” She joked, shifting so he could flop onto the sofa.

“Abso-fuckin’- _lutely_.”

John relaxed, recalling just how wonderful a woman she really was. The first time he had met her, after the whole incident in the bar and him revealing himself to them all that fateful night back in Birmingham, they had met up once or twice for a shoot; for dinner, yadda yadda. The press had caught them though, there was some speculation but, let’s be honest, he had just had a baby. The world knew they weren’t an item, not yet exclusive, because of that.

She was a wonderful person, radiating hope and purity. A guiding hand, a warm soul… John would be lost without her, even though he didn’t deserve her one bit. She didn’t even seem part of the rock and roll world, the bassist still wasn’t sure she had even been to a concert before meeting him.

He had tried to call her, he chased her. He would admit to being a fan, having been caught in a small trance, the aura that radiated off of her: _the_ _face of the eighties_ and what a beautiful face she had.

There was a lot John was willing to give up for her but that couldn’t even compare to what she would be sacrificing for him.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No Ren, please, chill. It’s my place and I should be serving you!”

Renee knew how to challenge him. To call him up on his crap and to expose him on it. She knew how to balance him out, an ever going battle. His mood swings were wild, his crashes vile. She was just like his band mates that way, the ones that he didn’t really have to do that anymore. The luxury of security, self-assurance, being kept _alive_ … what John didn’t have now that he had gone.

“How is Simon? I would love to see him before I have to leave.”

“Charlie. You can call him Charlie.”

“Can I?” She hesitated, “I didn’t think I have earned—”

“—You’ve absolutely earned the trust to call him Charlie. He’ll insist on it, trust me Ren.”

John couldn’t thank her enough, even though it had only been a couple months, something told him that she was here to stay. She wouldn’t want to drop him, use him. He wouldn’t be dropping her, somehow.

She meant something special to him. Not that he could quite pinpoint what that was, just yet.

She had been speaking to him, it was easy as in and out he drifted. Thankfully she was helping to clear his plagued mind of the outside world, all momentarily forgotten once she had helped guide him through his door. Over the threshold, re-immersing him in his sanctuary.

Renee didn’t ask but John knew, hand now shaking around his tea cup, that she would. Soon. The whole world would. And soon.

She had plenty of reasons to be here but right now, although it pained him dearly, he had to leave her there. He had to try to get any and all of a handle on this mess, before the whole shithouse went up in flames around him and Barbarella.

And Simon.

He let her stay for the evening, borrowing an old button down shirt of his, so off she disappeared into the guest suite.

“I’ll be right here, should you need me.”

John pulled her in for a hug, body trembling as he fought the urge to breakdown again. The bassist couldn’t thank her enough, her and that supportive energy. The positive vibes she bought with her, shining light on John and his endless darkness.

As soon as John was sure she was out of sight, he heaved a heavy sigh and paraded straight to the phone. He took a moment, composing himself, finding his business hat and yanking it the fuck on.

He was enraged, furious, thoroughly betrayed by those, press and paparazzi, who needed him way more than he needed them. The flies on the wall that proved pitiful, idiotic, as John would fight to squash them.

_Voices and other sounds, can you hear me now?_

Grabbing the phone, fingers slamming in the numbers he had known off by heart since 1982, he demanded.

“I need my lawyer…”

“I don’t care what fuckin’ hour of the night it is.”

“… Damage control…”

“Not letting that bollocks make it public…”

“… They have no right…”

“Arrogant pieces of shit… wouldn’t even step on one…”

“They’ll post everything…”

“… Hanging in the balance…”

“Not just _my_ reputation?! You inconsiderate fucker…”

“Sort it out.”

“She won’t be safe”

“Neither will I.”

“… We both deserve better…”

“My _daughter’s_ life depends on it.”

John flung the phone from him, knowing that the hours he had wasted screaming to each business man after business man were all that he could do.

_Charlie’s life depends on it._

The air was thick, riddled with something he didn’t like. Sprawling himself back out on the sofa, flushed, he knew he wouldn’t be getting his way. Away with it.

_Charlie doesn’t deserve it._

He was defeated, thoroughly battered and bruised. There wasn’t enough he could do to stop it. To stop himself, again, from being plastered to every entertainment and press shit bag that would hit the stands first thing in the morning. Or the next morning. Be on every entertainment news channel before he could sing ‘that woman of yours is a killer.’

_Charlie wasn’t safe._

John was welling up, shedding a single tear.

_How could Charlie ever be safe?_

He may have been one of the most powerful men in the industry, the biggest of names on the planet but that didn’t mean he would be getting out of this one.

He sprang out of his daze. Barbarella was calling to him. Glancing at his watch, dimmed black in the dead of night, he put two and two together and realised she was in need of a feed. He upped, carefully, feeling his way through the space as the moonlight beat its way through the curtains.

Slipping into what would become Barbarella’s room, when they had the chance to move in together properly, he rounded the makeshift cot and picked her up.

_Charlie._

John stared straight through Barbarella’s big, beautiful brown eyes tinged with gut wrenching tears.

“You miss daddy, don’t you?”

Barbarella cried harder.

“So do I.”

_Call him, you dolt._

John couldn’t wait. He placed Barbarella back down and ran to his phone, disconnecting it to bring it into her bedroom. Somehow he cradled them both, Barbarella in his left hand and the phone cord wrapped around his right. He prayed, endlessly, that if he kept ringing Simon would be shaken from a much needed slumber and pick the fuck up.

John was praying, he giggled as his shirt was already off, that Simon could save him from this mess. Save him from himself, once again.


	17. Hey Mister

John was stirring from his slumber as a soft hand swept its way through his messy hair. It caught hold of the blonde, before trailing down his cheek. He smiled into the touch, head tilting slightly.

He sent a hand out to the bedside table, fumbling for his glasses. He smiled again as his fingers clutched at the familiar sleek glass, bringing the frames up to his face. Placing them on, he squinted to momentarily adjust.

“I have to go.”

John was faced with Renée and her striking beauty. She was smiling down at him and was already dressed in her classic ruby red jumper and blue jeans combo, coat in hand.

He coughed, clearing his dry throat. “I’m so sorry that we didn’t, you know, uh...”

“Do not worry about it, you can take me to dinner next time.” Although her last words lacked belief, John nodded. “You had bigger things to worry about, forget about me.”

Thankfully they both skirted about it. Or tried to.

“No, n-no I,” John cut himself off with a groan, “shit Ren, if it’s not out there _today_ … then it’s _tomorrow,_ you know? And if it’s not tomorrow it’s the day after and, fuck, I’ll be _everywhere!_ ”

John began to quiver, eyebrows furrowing and mouth quirking downwards.

“John, don’t,” she called him on his bluff. “Please, don’t.”

He felt like an utter tit. How many times had he lost it in front of this undeserving bird?

How many more times would he lose it?

John held back the rain and let his gaze fall to his chest. Barbarella was laying atop of him, on her stomach, the little rises and falls telling him that she was still submerged in her dreamland. He must’ve crashed out here after her feed, somehow bringing her back down with him.

John shuffled so he was resting up against the headboard, body no longer contorting at an odd angle. Barbarella now lay atop his right shoulder, the little ball of black contrasting harsh against his nude and pasty skin. He let his mullet dangle, rumpled and in dire need of a wash, before his bleary eyes.

There was a stir. A special little someone was ready to grace the world with her beautiful big brown eyes. _So wide. Don’t lie…_

Renée’s own beaming blue gaze widened, singling on Barbarella as she wiggled in John’s palm. “I would love to have a child of my own, someday,” her voice was small, wistful even.

Barbarella craned her little head as far as she could, teeny arms shooting forward to clasp at John’s stray hair. She gripped at him tight, content on yanking the brown into her tiny palm and tugging on it.

“Ow.. o- _ow!_ Fu— _Barbie!_ ” John stumbled, leaning into his daughter’s ever strengthening grip. “Save some hair for mummy please!”

John was greeted with Renee’s laugh. It was beautiful, a rhythmical sound that rang out like bells; soft and heartfelt.

“Ow! Jesus Girl… _ow!_ ”

“I’ve never seen her grip someone’s hair like that, John.”

Barbarella was laughing now too, her tinkly times growing in intensity the more John ‘struggled’ in her grip.

“Alright, alright,” John’s voice grew momentarily firm, “keep _laughin’_ at me! Sods…”

“Oh, we will,” Renée clutched at his knee, flashing him her dreamboat smile.

Barbarella gave his curls a harsh yank, they both squealed.

“How do you have so much strength when you ain’t even on solids properly yet?!”

Renée only laughed harder.

“I’m sorry that I… _alright Barbie that’s enough, stop it_ , kept you waitin’ this morning, Ren, won’t you stop it!” John batted her tiny hand away but Barbarella wasn’t having any of it, “Ugh fine. Here.” He wiggled his face in front of hers and her eyes broadened comically at all the hair so readily available to her, “why do I bother with toys? Shit, Ren, I didn’t mean to sleep in so damn long.”

“When don’t you sleep in _so damn long?_ ” She teased. Before John could reply, “It’s alright, I had a lovely conversation with Nigel. He kept me entertained.”

“Huh?” John’s head flung up, mouth dropping open.

With a roll of her light blue eyes, she rose back to her full height before craning over to give Barbarella her goodbye kiss. She loved her auntie Renée, she really did. Barbarella would always wail uncontrollably when she left, then screech until she came back, so the game was on: to keep John’s bird of paradise distracted as Renee slipped out of the bedroom, out of his apartment.

John hoisted her into the air, little noises resembling a failing aircraft engine dropping from his lips. _Sing, Sing Blue-ue Sil-vur-urrr. Oh shit, that’s a car engine. Fuck it._ Barbarella was soaring, arms stretched out and legs kicking in time with his tune; little cackles dropping off of her own teeny lips. John rocked her back and forth for a couple moments, Renée’s lean figure beginning to slip from his line of sight.

He peered over to find her, mouthing another ‘thank you.’ She nodded once, beaming, as the door quietly shut and John was re-immersed in his self isolation.

“Nigel?” He bought Barbarella back down to him, she was shimmying in his hold, “Who was she on about, baby?”

John patiently waited her answer.

“Is there another man?”

Barbarella gargled.

“Is he better than me?”

She squealed.

“Are you just humouring me?”

She squeaked.

“Yes, yes you are.”

She giggled.

“Little bugger.” He spat, not that he meant it!

Throwing his weight forward, John flung himself from the bed. Still shirtless, pyjama bottoms half hanging from his hips, he slid into is slippers and began the trudge to the kitchen. In dire need of… anything. Whatever he could get his mits on.  
  


With a yawn, he pried open the bedroom door. Then, he was whistling, Barbarella was too, bop-bopping his way through the living space; bangles clinking.

_Oh yeah, shit, they need to go._

“Bop b-bop, b-bop bop b-bop!”

_But how?_

Barbarella giggled, bringing John back to her. Her universe. _Planet Earth_ was one of her absolute favourites: the girl had good taste.

“This is _Planet Earth_ , baby!”

Although it pissed him off that she loved the drumming more so than his bass. But not too much as it was being smashed out by the lovely—

“—What the _fuck!_ ” He screamed, louder than ever before.

John did a double take, near dropping Barbarella to the tile floor.

He was trembling, mouth dropping open and spewing god knows what. For some reason Barbarella was giggling again, adopting a new tone that was lower than what they were used too. It was as though she was onto something, probably him, as though she knew what was happening before he himself could make any sense of the situation.

She lurched forward for his bed head mullet again, twirling the stray strands in her grabby little fingers. John couldn’t move, only cursing at it began to hurt but he didn’t stop her. She carried on playing merrily, he stood dumbfounded: eyes wider than any crackhead.

“He—” he cursed, “he _llo?_ ”

Silence.

He coughed. “Uh, hello?”

Silence.

“Alright this is bollocks.” He threw himself to the sofa in defeat, staring it down.

“ _Nigel_.”

John’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked.

“W-what? Wait, I, I’m not—”

“— _Nigel_.”

“I’m not Nigel, you- what the shit- neither are _you?!_ ” John’s pulse rabbited in his chest, his grip on Barbarella almost faltering.

His gaze was wide, not from the rushing powder in his veins for once. It was a natural high. A naturally disturbing high that had him gaping like he was staring down Duran’s first gold disc for the first time again. Then platinum.

“What is fuckin’ happening?!”

“Nigel.”  
  


“ _What!_ ” He screamed, trembling.

Silence.

Leg bobbing irritably, “Well, won’t you say something then?!”

Infuriating silence.

“Barbie,” he turned to her, tangled hair in her palm, “am I going mad? Is Ni- _mummy_ going slightly mad?”

“Mad.”

“Shut up, this doesn’t concern you!” He spat, before whipping his gaze back down to Barbarella. “Am I… you know, mad?” His voice was smaller, with a vulnerable tinge that was scaring him.

“Mad Nigel.”

“For the love of—”

“—Mad Nigel.”

“What is fucking _happening?_ ”

He was sober. Stone cold fucking sober.

John rubbed at his good for nothing eyes, then his glasses. He slipped them back on, blinking rapidly. He slipped them back on to the same sight: a giant, insanely talkative, big-ass tit with wings that span further than John first thought. It’s beak was stark black, it’s eyes beady and taunting. It ruffled its feathers, grey with a tinge of red for its tail in a matter that was surely mocking John.

“You’re... you’re a…”

It was madness. He was stone cold fucking sober and descending into madness.

John’s jaw was on the floor. There was a parrot perched casually mere metres from him.

“ _Parrot_.”

_Why do I even?_

His parrot.

“Nigel.”

_Why does he keep saying that?_

“Nigel.”

“I have a fuckin’… bloody _parrot?_ What the shit!” Obviously John’s sweat jar was having a day off today. His swear _crate_. “Blimey!”

_Doesn’t he know anything else to say?_

“Nigel.”

_Well, at least I can’t whine about having no one to talk too._

His parrot, who he hurriedly assumed was called Nigel.

_There was no other Nigel here, right?_

“This is mad… who even… when did I even?” John scanned his tired head, dizzy and heavy from this stomach churning revelation, “Christ!”

_Right._

“Who fuckin’ named ya..” he tried, he couldn’t say it, “that?!”

“ _You_.”

John stammered out his nervous laughter. Surely he was mad, this whole thing, his whole life: madness.

He was sober. Stone cold fucking sober.

First he was seeing people, being haunted by musicians come and gone. Next he has supermodels looking after his baby and supermodels crumbling before his front door and now…. Parrot.

“Parrot… you. You. Are. A. Oh Jesus Christ!”

_Yeah, okay. Because that makes friggin’ sense!_

“Nigel.”

“Stop. Saying. That!” His scream was shrill, he rushed off of the sofa to stand right before the two winged demon thing.

John perched right before it on its perch, it didn’t even have a cage. It’s head was twitching in strange staccato movements that, he tried not to laugh, had Barbarella trying to follow.

“It’s John,” he grunted, “ _John_. J. O. H. N!”

“Nigel.”

“Oh, fuck off!” He rose back to standing in haste.

John stormed into the kitchen, the faint cackling of the demon bird at his back.

  
_Who named the bastard?_

“Nigel.”

“ _Shutthefuckup!_ ” He screeched from his island bar, bird still in view. “Who named you, bastard?”

“... Nigel.”

“Oh you mother fucker.”

There was a pause, he was breathing heavily.

A staring contest.

**_Moving on the floor now babe,_ **

Barbarella was winning.

  
**_You’re a bird of paradise._ **

The parrot was winning.

  
_**Cherry ice cream smile,** _

John was losing.

“ _Nigel_.”

_**I suppose it’s very nice.** _

  
“You are one sick April Fools joke.”

  
The parrot won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the unofficial _Notorious _biography, there were “two beauties” living in John’s apartment. One was (insert long winded description of parrot) and the other his model girlfriend.__
> 
> _So, I have no idea if John actually owned a parrot and if he did for how long but that proved just far too good of an opportunity to waste._  
> 


	18. Say Something!

“No Nick, I’m not freaking kidding!”

“… why would I lie about that?”

“… it’s a freakin’… _Macaw?_ ”

“Why would I fuckin’ know?!”

“No I’m not naming it _Rio_ … Just cuz!”

“Oh, ha-fucking-ha… I have my bird of paradise _and_ a bird of paradise, real original Bates…”

“Shit where’s Charlie?”

“Put Charlie on… put Charlie on, Barbie wants to say hello.”

“Hey luv! Why is there a fuckin’ _parrot_ in my apartment?!”

“ _Macaw?_ I don’t know the different types of parrot, just shut up!”

“… say hi to your daughter later… why is there a fuckin’ parrot…”

“No! Not I’m not…”

“… been sober all week… you know that!”

“Swear to God, Charlie, alright fine.”

“Fuck it… you want to hear it? Here!”

….

“Oh, c’mon… c’mon Nigel, you bastard!”

….

“Crap.”

“Nigel, say somethin’ then… you _bastard_.”

“Oi, why are you laughing Charlie?! His name is… _fuck_.”

“…Yeah, yeah. Nick already did the whole ‘bird of paradise’ bit… how ironic.”

“Props for the foreshadowing.”

“First ‘holding tight’ with Barbie, my bangles… now yachts in Antigua with pink phones and foam for this shit…”

“Nigel, will you just bloody yack to Charlie already!”

“Stupid bird…”

“… he’s really real, you asshole I can _see_ him. He’s staring right at me…”

  
“... beady lil black eyes... feathery tail... what a _bird_ has?!”

“ _Please, please tell me now_ : no! Haven’t had a drink in… no Charlie! Haven’t had any Coke in… had a Pepsi last night.”

“He’s still staring at me…”

“No I will _not_ sing the _XTC_ song…”

“I refuse to demean myself in front of him like that, you know... why are you giggling?”

“Stop laughing Charlie.”

“Stop… _stop_ singing _XTC_ Charlie!”

“Grunge doesn’t suit your voice, luv... stop it!”

“... Oh okay, yeah right... fuck off.”

“Fine, screw it, see he’ll say jack shit..”

“We’re only _Making Plans For_ — see Charlie, nothing. Stop laughing… fuck you!”

“... Blow me.” 

John slammed the phone down.

“We’re. Only. Ma-king. Plans. For.” John held out a hand, signalling to the bird.

“ _Nigel_.”

“Oh-woo.” His head shot up, comically.

“Fuck you too!”

“… Making plans for _Ni-gel_.” Nigel squawked. “Oh-woo.”

“ _We’re all fricking makin’ plans for hi-im._ Why am I _singing_ to you?!” John yelled, collapsing to the sofa. “Bastard bird.”

Nigel gaped at him.

“God I fuckin _hate_ your feathery butt… shit, where’s Barbie?!”


	19. You’ve Got The Teeth Of The Hydra Upon You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...

_He ain’t never coming down._

Trembling, stumbling, he flung himself into the sofa. There was glass littered around, spilt drink, white crumbles and not much else.

He held a flame in hand. Flicking it. Playing with it. Tossing it in the air.

_Bop._

He flicked the lighter.

_Smash Hits._

He flicked it off.

_Jackie._

Flicked it.

_NME_

Flicked it off.

The table was a disarray of pain, unnecessarily reminders. Him jumping out, layers after layers behind unraveled as they were tossed into the air and torn in a frenzy.

Slamming a bottle into the ground, he clutched shard after shard. The blood on his hands now.

_Tiger Beat._

He rammed a shard in.

_Melody Maker._

He cut his own picture.

_No1._

He slit his own eyes.

_Bravo._

He chucked them to the ground.

**_Get higher baby._ **

****

He set the pile alight.

**_Get higher baby._ **

Picking them up, burning before his widened eyes, he dangled them and wafted them about.

_Teen Beat._

Shredded before him.

_Seventeen._

Tossed them to the floor. Let the pile catch a flame.

**_Sugar._ **

****

Stomped it out.

**_Cane._ **

“Now I’m broke, that’s no joke.”

He punched his way through the window.

Screeching, the glass shattered all around him.

“It’s hard enough to hide it.”

He took hold of the wad of crap.

“Don’t _buy_ it!”

He chucked magazine after magazine out. Burning, burning straight through the inky black sky. Tossing and tossing, screaming and crying, they were left to rot into the rain, setting bushes alight in their wake. His car, the _Mercedes_ he had never driven, wasn’t precious enough to avoid his wrath. To get a pass.

John stormed his own apartment, bottle in hand.

Tables were flipped; chairs flung out his way.

**_Sugar._ **

The parrot perch was tossed. The bugger flew away.

**_Cane_ ** _._

There were sudden sirens, loud and shrill. He fell to his knees, hard, clutching helplessly over his ears. He hissed. Yelled. Screeched. Flinging his body deeper into the floor, bashing his fists deeper into it. Riding it out, throwing himself into hell.

“Cuz you’ve gotta your _Own Way_.”

_The phone._

Flinging his head up, sobbing uncontrollably, his gaze widened.

“Get higher baby.” He began to crawl, desperate and pathetic.

“G-get.. high.. _higher_ baby.” He slid aside.

Quivering hands, jolting head, he tossed what he could of it up into the air. Rubbed it into the smashed glass. Used another piece to cut it.

Tossed the lighter up with it.

“You can find your own way, John.”

Eyes widening; head tossed back, he sniffed and sniffed: raking it all in. He jumped up, trembling, skin alight with it. The feel. The need. Shaky hands dropped more, a desperate tongue lapped it up.

**_Eyes wide. Don’t lie._ **

He stormed up to the broken window.

Heavy gaze, blurry head, he glanced down at the flames battling the London street before him.

He whirled around, bolting through to the bedroom. Her bedroom, full of shrill screams. Bottles by her cot. Bottles by his feet.

All unopened.

All crashed to the floor.

***  
  


  
Three wild boy days. He drank and drank, emptying his guts each and every time. His skin was alight with fever, stomach quaking and forcing him to give it up.

John didn’t listen.

He hadn’t changed in three days. No need for a shower, his hair was plastered to his head and stubbles ran down his neck. His eyes were bloodshot, dimmed dark red and raw. Lips bitten, bleeding. Nose red, itching for another hit.

The apartment was a mess. A sea of _white glass splinters_ lying deep in the carpets, clashing with the tile, decorating it. It was free labour. _Art_.

John wolfed down another bottle, clutching at his head. Letting the vodka slip merrily down his burning throat, he threw his head back and counted. Deep breaths, in and out. In and out. Awaited anxiously for it all to come back up.

His mind was a frenzy, running hot and heavy as he recalled everything that he could: overly fuzzy on what had happened.

_Front pages._

_Tossing them out._

_Sirens._

_TV Set._

_Smashing it._

_Police outside._

_Someone outside._

_Banging down the door._

_Locking himself in Barbarella’s room._

_Rocking her back and forth._

_Someone beating down the door._

_Her being ripped from his arms._

_Her being ripped from his apartment._

Three days. No sleep. Just hot, lustful alcohol to drown his sorrows in.

He had shuffled to a dealer, collapsing outside the door. With no strength, he flung himself up against it on his hands and knees, begging to be let inside. Begging to take another hit.

_Left a screaming wreck._

He had come home, a million magic crystals dangling from his satin pockets. He huffed some, kept some. Huffed some more, put some aside.

_Frothing at the mouth._

He was left a junkie on the floor, mind running faster and faster. Seeing spots, every colour of the effervescent rainbow. Holding back the rain was no option, when was it ever, especially when being watched.

Not by the parrot.

_She was screaming as he was shoved out the way._

_She was bawling as they ran._

_He was hollering after them, beating them to the door._

He had a black eye now.

_“I’m… not… taking it anymore… you… inconsiderate.. bastard!”_

_“No more… John do you hear me?”_

_“… until this place… burns to the ground!”_

_“You’ll kill yourself! And her!”_

Downing another bottle of beloved _Smirnoff_ , an unforgettable line, the world again began to crash around him. He stumbled atop of the figure, shuffling in beside him. Now, the figure held a bottle of _Fosters_ in hand. Swigged it. Put it back down. Tossed it to crash beside him.

“Cuz I’ve got _My Own Way_.” It bellowed. “John; not just you.”

John fell to the floor, screaming to be left alone.

“Where…” he sniffed, tears falling, “are you?!”

“I can find _My Own Way_.”

“Get out of my fuckin’ head!”

“He’s got his own way.”

There was only one name now on John’s bloody lips.

“Si…” he choked, “Simon?”

Without another word the figure vanished, all sights of him in that haunting baby blue were gone. Those fierce brown eyes, those stern lips. Crumbling, dissipating into something new. 

“Where’s. My. _Baby?!_ ” He demanded, screaming shrill.

Flashing him a haunting smile, a wild crash of cymbals and John crashed with it. Diving into another line, he sent his huge body to the floor: gasping desperately for breath.

“You… you’ll,” he was swinging on the balls of his feet.

He slammed his head into the smashed coffee table.

“K-ki.. _Kill_ …”

Bleeding out. Stuttering and stumbling.

“Yourself… ha! Again Nigel!”

John’s world beat itself to black.


	20. You’re About As Easy As A Nuclear War

There were hands on him. Voices flowing, wild and distorted. Like a crackling radio, John couldn’t find the frequency. He tried and tried, growing restless, demanding himself to open his aching eyes and bare his teeth. To be stitched up once again. To let them know he was conscious.

They were talking, he could barely hear. Comprehend. They were worried, furious… where did it end? Why was he still doing this? Why was he letting them touch him, to see him in such a state?

To tear his child from his trembling arms as the high crashed over him, mercilessly dragging him through party shore. Caught in the tuna net, fighting for his life as the chance to breathe ran out. And out. And out.

He choked, gargled, fumbling with his tongue. His ears were ringing, flashes of red and black were blinding behind his eyes as he desperately tried to pry them open.

_You found your own way._

“No I _didn’t!_ ” He belted, finally thrashing himself from his lonesome nightmare.

Another night, another fall.

He was being hoisted up, a towel thrown over his eyes. He yanked it off, forcing himself upwards. He groaned, forcing down the bike that arose with him, sending his head down into his clammy hands.

“John.”

John couldn’t bear to look at him. Couldn’t face the heat.

“That’s why I’ve done it again!”

“ _John!_ ”

He was yanked by the hair, bleary eyes struggling to focus. Crowded irises searching for something warm and familiar, knowing that all he deserved was ice.

He was screaming, pink in the face and fighting back tears. John could tell, that tell tale vein and prick of body shoulders could voice that a mile off. Even lost amongst the black in his hair, he couldn’t hide the tell tale signs in his eyes: the pain and grief that was tearing him up inside as he ploughed on through word after word.

“Don’t make me, John, look at me, _look_ at me!”

John was in hysterics, throwing himself into the quivering boy before him. He broke down, vile and wrong, sobbing uncontrollably into that neck.

“Suffer _this_ heatwave.” The voice was small, choked off. “No more, no fuckin’ more of it-” he was quick to find that harsh tone, “do you hear me? John!”

“I _hear_ you.. I, fuck, I’ll,” he hiccuped, pulling himself away so that they were teary eye to eye.

John swallowed his words, biting into his bottom lip. He was being blinded by his own tears, shaking uncontrollably. Leaning into that palm, a failing grip on his arm; John swallowed his words and ground out all that he could.

A simple ‘sorry’ meant nothing, there was no way John could even begin making up for this one.

The screaming match continued, John clutching aimlessly at every time Barbarella’s precious name was ruefully dropped into it. _For her_ , he told himself. _For her_ , he was reminded.

A child couldn’t live like this, so weak and so fragile.

There was to be no more of it. John wouldn’t be having her back until he could prove, would prove, that he needed Simon there. That he was to be trusted, could control himself. Control anything. Follow Simon’s orders and stick beside him.

A child couldn’t live with a mother frothing at the mouth.

John knew exactly what had to be done first.

  
***  
  


Speculation was nowhere near as rife as it had been throughout his nine months of back crippling, brain melting hell. The magazines were restless, the reporters relentless, desperate to stay on his tail.

John left it open, vague as always, dodging each and every one with a simple flick of his bangled wrist.

They meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t be stopping to their level for the sake of some good entertainment tonight on the TV set.

But the time was up, it had been wearing thin since Christmas. Since _Live Aid_ had blown up in Duran’s face. John was sick of hiding. He had kept Simon in the shadows, forcing him to pose with model after model as he tried to do the same, desperate for the supposed rock star normality. The papers weren’t having any of it, Janine hadn’t worked and neither had Renée. His endless men in between, no matter how fast their hands on tongues may have been… nothing.

There was no romance, no love or adoration, it was a _business_ partnership after all that had slipped straight through John’s slimy fingers.

_Not until you’re ready, baby._

Simon’s words had turned demands and pleas. Yasmin was on her knees, yet John couldn’t see that through the phone, clutching at Simon’s legs as John had waved him off through the crackling line again. A simple flick of his wrist, those familiar jingles of his jewellery and yet again Simon was cast aside, from New fucking York.

This happened again and again, John’s heavy _Power Station_ heart crumbling and being re-sown as he replayed _Arcadia_ in his head. Back to when they were younger, the music world at their feet and domination on their minds. Back to the new romantic days of still being frightened to dip in a toe whilst holding trembling hands.

_Not until you’re ready, baby._

John’s clogged mind was running marathon after marathon, exhausted by the phrase that he recited over and over. Simon’s precious vocal, the hurt in his eyes as he had said it: John was clinging to it all now. It was his mantra, his _excuse_. His excuse from keeping Simon in the dark this whole time, shunning himself from the spotlight and shutting out every man who had dared to feel John’s winter and had to force their way in.

It had to end. No more hiding.

_Not until you’re ready, baby._

Then there was the _other_ gloomy side of those sacred words which left John in despair and full of shame. John hadn’t felt the smooth caress of Simon, the way he filled and took care of him. Ironing out his creases, smoothing down his kinks. Driving them both further, singing in delectable blue and silver, _for months._

John was the sort of man to be fucked within an inch of his life, teetering dangerously over the edge of oblivion.

_A year._

Simon, however animalistic it may have once seemed, was now content on taking it slow and thorough.

_A year and a half._

John was putty in his hands, opening up as he fell deeper and deeper…

He couldn’t bear to count.

Not since before that fateful November Tuesday, in the Rock Doctor’s crummy office.

_November 1984. It was April 1986 now._

Simon hadn’t pounced on him, like a leopard or a hungry wolf for that matter. He had kept his distance, guard up, and John, the asshole, had thrashed his heart about so much that the little to non-existent intimacy was now okay. The norm for the singer and his bassist. The lack of it, the little desire to go further than a kiss: to chance thrusting himself into Simon’s ready grip… proved futile. John was limp and lifeless in every sense of the word.

_Not until you’re ready, baby._

It was unravelling further and further: his libido and will; a will to be broken down, tamed and loved was ripped at the seams. John couldn’t believe what parts of his heart were left, why Simon was even still trying to patch him back up. How the man, his _saviour_ , hadn’t given up on him and found solace in a lover somewhere else.

A shift. A whine.

John’s head shot upwards.

A giggle. A merry little vocal, dropping from teeny tiny pink lips.

Why Simon hadn’t sought a lover elsewhere, was beckoning him over, watching him intently. Why Simon had even tried to let John stay by his side, was beckoning him over, eager for his touch and pitiful singing voice.

John’s waters burst his banks.

Barbarella squealed as two battered and bruised hands clutched at her sides, trembling on her skin as she was hoisted into the air.

“Are you _ready_ , John?”

How many times had he heard that? It was a simple question and for Christ’s sake, it deserved a simple and straightforward answer.

“Will you finally come clean?”

_Clean?_

Whirling around, he was still surprised to have heard the singer speak. His tones were icy, demanding yet desperate. He was thoroughly defeated, with a beaten down gaze, hunched shoulders, a quivering bottom lip.

The fire in those beady blue eyes surely couldn’t take another burn out.

_Clean about?_

John had never been more sure of anything in his life. Their life, his and Simon’s, whatever the hell the shattered relationship may have had left.

Barbarella’s life depended on it.

“ _Yes_.” He rasped, tears streaming and knees threatening to give way. “Yes Charlie… luv I, I want too. I need too. Please,” he whined, “please _take care_ of me.”

Simon’s face remained stern, unreadable.


	21. You’ll See I’m Right Some Of The Time, Like

Another gruelling week barely passed, John was a dead weight in Simon’s apartment most of the time. His chambers were more than empty, no tipple here, no little sniff there and he was reeling over it.

He didn’t even leave the apartment (only sneaking out in the middle of the night to feed and check in on Nigel- there wasn’t a chance in hell Simon was dealing with the parrot at this point) John couldn’t bear to face the reporters interrogating him and fighting to snap pictures of his baby girl. Barbarella was snuck out a couple times to finally spend some quality time with her grandparents in Putney, John stayed put.

Things were running, could he even say, well for most of it. It wasn’t until late Thursday night that they remembered Simon’s existence which, all things considered, was a pretty big moment with their dwindling fan base and appeal having hit him pretty hard, after _Live Aid_ and the critical flop that was the _Arcadia_ album.

The first time, after diving into the master bedroom and frantically locking it and shoving a footstool in front of the door, John was practically shitting himself: trembling with a squealing Barbarella in his grip. He hadn’t grabbed a dummy for her, she was working wonders by not wanting one, but shutting her up and crumbling on one side of the door as Simon dealt with the reporters hell on the other side was excruciatingly painful. Then when Simon started yelling, dodging questions, begging them to leave him alone… John lost it.

The bassist had no clue as to how long he had been holed away. The minutes passed like hours, now sobbing into Simon’s silken sheets. He didn’t even know why. He was shoving himself further into them, desperate to cover his ears with the pillow case as the harsh words from the outside world grew larger and more striking: Simon having thoroughly lost his protective streak over John; forcing the press out.

John kept Barbarella’s tiny ears covered, kept her a separate entity to the filth of the real world he had bought her into. He placed her down, using her tiny baby grow to help mop up his tears as she fidgeted and shrieked underneath him. Clutching at his brown ringlets, she reeled her mummy impossibly closer.

She had a thing for silken sheets, it seemed.

John was breathing erratically, pelting her neck with it. Another small yank and he swooped down, kissing her over and over. Kissing his own tears away as they dripped down onto her puffy cheeks.

Only when she began speaking back, kicking out, reassuring him, did John begin to return to Earth.

There was a rhythmical knock on the door, John was slumping off of the bed to go and unlatch it. He was still quivering, Barbarella was wondering where her mummy had gone and was calling for John to come back and play with her. John blanked her, if only for a moment, now stood face to face with his front man.

His skin was flush red, his eyes dimmed dark and he was thoroughly exhausted.

John couldn’t mouth more than ‘I’m so sor-’ before Simon’s lips sealed onto his, bringing him in for a ruthless kiss.

  
***  
  


Laying a heavy head to rest on that strong, supportive shoulder, John grasped Barbarella tighter as her little fingers and tiny mouth sucked on whatever new toy she was determined on wrecking today.

In front of them, scattered atop of the table, were a set of Polaroid’s. Each, signed and dated by the artist: Nicholas James Bates.

The keyboardist’s suggestions hadn’t stopped rolling, neither had the model’s. Simon insisted on enlisting Yasmin as back up and besides, _why not?_ John had thought, _this was her field of expertise after all._

He acted as though it wasn’t his, too.

“Would you wanna go abroad, babe?” Simon posed, talking more to the photograph of John he held than the actual, animated John at his side.

“Hmm, maybe? I don’t wanna be too much of a pain, with it, though.”

_Huh, oddly compassionate there Taylor._

“It would be nice to pose on another boat, showing the continuation from the first set to now. Showing how you’ve grown, Nigel.”

John’s gaze found the self assuring in Nick’s hazel one. He pursed his lips, considering.

_Money is wearing a little thin, though… isn’t it? Or is it just me because I have a child now?!_

“We could use Drum?”

“That would be lovely, Charlie, even closer to home,” Yasmin’s tones filled the air.

_Well somebody seems hopeful._

_Wait, Drum? Oh no. Oh, no, no…_

“I don’t… uh, you know…”

John was steamrolled over pretty fast. The ideas were dropping all over the place, being formed faster than he could keep up. John bit his tongue, focused his attention on the bouncing baby in his grip. She was shimmying to Simon’s voice, nodding along enthusiastically as more mentions of Drum this and Drum that rang through the kitchen space.

_Oh god._

“See, Barbie _loves_ that idea!”

“You love your boats don’t you beautiful? Just like Daddy, yeah!” Simon snapped John out of his daze.

“Uh.. like, like you _daddy_ … yeah!” He hoisted her up, eyes coated in fear for her little life.

_What is wrong with you, Taylor, snap out of it!_

“So, when and where then Charlie?”

“Has to be soon doesn’t it, I don’t think poor Johnny can last much longer!”

_Stop it, just breathe… breathe…_

“But Nick _hates_ boats, remember? Charlie?” John half shouted into Simon’s shoulder, silently praying. “Tell me you remember.”

“It doesn’t have to be moving, Nigel,” Nick began, drawing John’s focus.

“It can still be at the docks.”

“And besides, my baby brother deserves it, don’t you think Charlie?”

Grinning wild, both Simon and Yasmin were, John felt ever so scrutinised. Burning up under the satin collar, flushing with it.

He was steamrolled right over, again.

_I swear to—_

“—April 19th- ish? We’ll have to check the forecast over the weekend.”

_Wait what, no!_

“Same sorta thing? Stylistically?”

_Umm._

“Yeah, why not.”

“On all _three_ of you?”

_She won’t even sit for five—_

“Yeah, yeah!”

  
_Jesus!_

“But what about my precious niece, will she even be able to sit _still_ at—”

_Mary!_

Barbarella threw her half soggy, bitten, wet lamb at Unkie Nick. Right in that pretty face.

_And Joseph Stalin, what?!_

That voracity of that motion was enough to bring John out of his inner gloom, into laughing like mad. He slapped his knee, tossing his head back with it. Simon was right there with him, clutching at John’s shoulders as together they were laughing so damn much, their chests were beginning to ache.

“ _Barbarella Diana Taylor Le Bon_ , what have we told you about abusing your Unkie Nick?!” Simon was barely able to stifle his ferocious laughter.

_Don’t middle name her!_

She made a little confused whine. Like her daddy, in the _Arena_ version of _Union Of The Snake_. That stupid, shrill scream.

_Well Barbie, guess you had it coming._

“Keep at it, you trooper!”

“The hell, Simon?!”

“Parenting 101. Take notes, Nicholas.”

  
Laughter erupted all around the singer again. With a sideways glance, John could practically see the glow radiating off of the front man. How pleased he was with himself at having bought John out of his own, little funk.

Simon stole a kiss.

  
“I’ll take that as it’s a _yes_ from her, Nick!” Yasmin pointed out, a devilish glint in her beautiful eye.

  
Simon stole another.

Wiping at the drool that now coated his pasty lips, “…so it is.”


	22. I Can Find My Own Way

After near two weeks of being kept apart from his apartment, grudgingly sober, John had finally managed to persuade Simon to let him and his darling Barbarella head back to his place.

Being sure to dodge the paparazzi that had thankfully been kicked out from camping beside Simon’s apartment building, the two Taylors left at near 1 AM. Barbarella was awoken, fed, before together they sped away back to the other end of London.

Upon his gracious return, bags at his feet, he was greeted with a giant squark from Nigel and Barbarella, the little traitor, was singing along with him. Thoroughly overjoyed to be back with her best friend.

John couldn’t lie, he was more than jealous that his bird of paradise and _actual_ bird of paradise had gelled so damn well. It was all kinds of odd but, he supposed, if she was happy (with teeny, eager arms flailing forward to grasp at Nigel on his perch) then it was okay.

_Yep, totally friggin jealous. Of a parrot._

_New low there, Taylor._

He longed for a thorough, in depth chat with his mother. John had felt odd about calling her whilst with Simon, knowing that someone would be keeping an ear on him, that he would be under some form of scrutiny. Some way, somehow.

He missed her like mad, wracking his brain to try and decipher just when he would have the chance to drive home with Barbarella. So his baby could see his childhood home, good ole 34 Simon Road, for herself. Although he found it odd, he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with Barbarella snoring softly atop his own childhood bed back in Hollywood. All six feet, one inch of him hunched over, neck aching, with his little bundle of joy atop his chest sounded like heaven to him somehow. He truly was growing softer by the day. She had already dozed off in the other, more notorious Hollywood a few times: well, at _MGM_ mixing studios at least.

It was a dream that kept him going. Longing for the day that they weren’t so in the spotlight, that they could both sneak away back north.

Strange, to think that this time a year ago, John was plastered to every magazine out there and crushing his own sales records; with a smile so bright he was bringing satellites out of orbit…

John had flown his parents, Jack and Eugene Taylor, out to New York a couple times when _The Power Station_ fairytale came to a not so Happy End. Jean stayed with him for the better portion of October 1985, once things had finally began to settle on the other side of the Atlantic. Simon was back and forth a hell of a lot too.

Finally he caught her, Barbarella had been shuffling away on her ikkle fat butt to get closer to Nigel. John was perched on the sofa, in between both birds of paradise; phone to his ear.

“Yeah, sure, here… here mum, here she is.” He broke away with a huge grin, “c’mon Barbie, say hi to Mamma Taylor!”

He had been calling his own mother ‘Mamma’ for months now. He was hoping that soon, maybe Autumn, that so would Barbarella.

“She really wuv’s you, Baby, say hi.. hi!”

He dangled the phone cord in front of her, teeny gaze going wide as John’s bangles jingled with it. Barbarella caught sight of them, little hands trying to finger them and she was squealing.

Jean hadn’t heard anything so beautiful.

Maybe not since her own little baby Nigel, crawling about and desperate to explore the grand piano no Taylor could play in 1960.

Or, John, when _Planet Earth_ debuted in early ’81.

_The first proper song of the eighties, what an honour._

He let Barbarella have her talk with her grandmother, elated over how infatuated she became with his mother’s voice. How elegant and graceful she was, ever so poised. Moving John to tears, almost.

“It’s called _Notorious_.. working title, yeah.”

John missed her terribly. Perhaps he could invite her round? Perhaps together they could finally assemble the baby’s room the way he wanted too…

“I don’t know… slate it for… yeah, November? We haven’t, uh, actually started it.”

They spoke about everything whilst John kept a close eye on his girl and his parrot. They rambled on about the typical baby stuff, to Simon, to their relationship, to whether John was remembering to actually eat and go to sleep.

He admitted readily, that he was guilty of failing the latter.

Jean was ever so intrigued by his new work. The new bass lines that John was itching to work on although sadly, his hands were a little tied right now. He didn’t know where to bloody start!

“I’d love to see you soon, mum. I, _we_ , me and Barbie, we miss you terribly.” John engulfed a huge breath, it was shaky as he released it.

They set the date. Jean would be coming around after the whole Drum thing.

“Okay, say bye Barbie. Say bye, ‘bye Mamma Taylor!’” John’s voice grew higher, to a weird-whiny pitch that he seriously hoped Barbarella would never actually sound like.

He giggled, as Barbarella sang down the phone line.

“I love you so much mum, say hi to Jacko for me. See you soon.”

For the first time since returning to the UK, John felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He could slump back down into his sofa and rest easy for the night: any and all memories of the past two weeks, some of the worst in his life, were flung from his mind.

He could focus on Barbarella again. He _would_ _be_ focusing on her again.

  
***  
  


The day came rolling around much quicker, now that John was finally beginning to settle into a routine. Of sorts.

There was still that dull buzz of the press on his ass, screaming from outside and enraged fans wanting to know more but John, fighting the urge for a drink, fought it all down. He threw his gaze back to his little bundle of joy, lolling merrily on her play mat in the middle of the living space and he smiled: full and hearty.

Things were starting to pick up. He was feeling more confident within himself, he thought. He had finally mastered changing her nappies, seemed to have the feeding schedule about right and was even able to fit in the odd nap as she slept also.

Barbarella was growing into her own, teeny person more-so each and every day. How she changed so much overnight was astonishing, to John, he was beginning to see more of himself in her beautiful big brown eyes. She was moving more, although she was always an active baby, determined to start exploring the apartment for herself.

(She also now had to be holed away as the cleaner came, otherwise she would be sliding about on her butt ‘mopping’ up too.)

Her eyes were everywhere, constantly looking for something new and exciting. Together, they went on little ‘tours’ around his place; John mumbling endlessly and Barbarella giggling back. John would dig out old clothes and trinkets, splaying them on his bed for her to marvel and squeal over. She was always far more interested in her mummy than any of her materialistic needs, it seemed, John always won out over her sea of fluffy toys.

Nigel liked to tag along, flying low and always on Barbarella’s tail.

“What a family we are, huh?”

Barbarella squealed in agreement.

“Got that right, girl.”

Nigel squawked in agreement.

“Right back at ya, homie.”

It was also about time that they started the transition that scared John shitless, somewhat. Barbarella needed to start making the change into solid foods, she was developing much faster than he could handle.

John had to admit, although it would take some time to adjust, he would miss those moments with her. The strange intimacy, he supposed he could call it, of having her so close. Of their heartbeats synching up, of having her holding on so tight with him as he put everything on hold to just live. Live out the moment, singing along to her as she fed.

John would have to learn the hard way, about treasuring their time together. With her like this, ever so precious and fragile yet too big to fit in his palms. Ever so small, easily lost in the huge apartment yet too big to ever fully lose sight off. She had such a stage presence, such an enchanting aura that whenever he let his shielded gaze drop too her, be ripped onto her, John found his heart to be beating so fast that he could barely breathe. Barely comprehend, where did he even begin, just how fast she was changing.

A real little Madame she was. John was falling deeper and deeper in love.

  
***  
  


It had become a _New Religion_ of sorts within the Taylor household.

Routine, a must; John insisted on having it flow throughout each room, overjoyed about his new Hi-Fi system, meeting the perfect pitch and casting a beautiful shade of blue to John’s lonesome silver.

She was already a huge fan of _Self Titled_ , together John and Baby Barbarella were working through what was bound to be her new favourite: _Rio_.

He was holding off on _Seven And The Ragged Tiger_ until he understood it more himself. It could be a hell of a long wait there. John was never really there even when he was there, physically in the room as the lyrics rolled, he was never really _really_ there now was he?

_What the actual fuck was in that lizard mixture? What did the pitcher taste like?_

It was so Barbarella would grow accustomed to her daddy’s unique voice, tinkly tones matching her own little vocal. It was so she wouldn’t forget him, no matter how far away Simon may or may not be. She would sing along, full of conviction and strength; jiving to the funky bass. She would laugh when certain more… questionable notes were hit, the higher pitch making her shiver with glee.

John was desperate to get her to clap in time with his bass. Together, they were almost there!

_Maybe she should at least hear the remixes version of The Reflex. You know, the song that she was pretty much bought into this world with? Then Wild Boys, same reasoning._

_Goddamn Live Aid. What a disaster._

They also had ‘sing-a-long with daddy’ time, which was extra special and desperately needed a clever, more inventive name. _Sing song Le Bon?_ Not only would John and Barbarella spend their days falling in love with _Rio_ as it was blasted throughout his place, his little Rio would also get the chance to properly shine with daddy. Showing him, all that she can.

Dancing in John’s living room, not quite the glistening Antigua sand.

Every night at 18:30, before Barbarella was to hit the hay within the hour, John would pick up the phone and leave it on speaker. He would have his bass laying alongside it, Barbarella squealing before him.

Together he and Simon serenaded her every night, laughing and clapping their way through a new song each night. The line crackled and fizzed, making John’s brow furrow every time he and Simon lost their beat. Although somehow, their little miracle was never phased by it. Their little hiccups and intermissions meant nothing. She was striving to have them back together, the perfect duet thriving.

Barbarella was growing more familiar with Simon’s heavenly voice, finding her way of making the Duran catalogue her own. It was so she wouldn’t forget him. No matter where she and John may be.

“Don’t say a prayer for me, now.”

Neither man could wait to really hear her.

“Save it till the morning, after,” Simon let it linger, voice flowing perfectly.

John was in time, strumming away. Barbarella’s eyes were blown wide, her mouth agape, rocking back and forth as John sang too; his bass line was the perfect lullaby. Sometimes he broke out a guitar, which elevated their duets to a whole new level.

John had never played _Rio_ using six strings, until now.

“Barbie, save it till the morning after.”

The duet began to fizzle out, John was rocking slowly to the synths as they filled his head and humming with it. Simon’s voice began to fade, growing softer and softer, knowing full well that Barbarella was drifting off peacefully into her own little dreamland now.

“Goodnight, luv.”

Both John and Simon were fully content on saving their next hit till the morning after.

That didn’t stop John calling him if Barbarella couldn’t settle after a feed in the middle of the night. His heart was warm and fuzzy, when Simon picked up within the first three rings. John couldn’t get enough of his very early renditions of _Last Chance On The Stairway_ and _Like An Angel_ , equip with scratchy throat and voice cracks.

Their lullabies were like heaven, perfectly imperfect for sending their little angel back into her dreams. So Barbarella and John were no longer so lonely in their nightmare.

Then came _Lonely In Your Nightmare_ itself, having John in tears as the memories washed over him; they were non-stop, ever so beautiful.

The track was stunning, delicate and vulnerable. The track was enticing, heart-wrenching; exposing a softer side to Duran that even in four short years had been seemingly buried.

It was a favourite of John’s, ingrained into his memories. The significance of it, the meanings to him: how the track thoroughly hit home.

The first time John and Simon had, you know, involved that sacred number, dropping from Simon’s beautiful lips. His voice was near breathless, hitching and falling: tickling John’s lips with it as John’s head was lolling back, as John opened up and finally- _finally_. John’s own wretched vocal was flowing, the perfect back up.

Antigua saw the heat beneath John’s winter, _finally_ let Simon in.


	23. The Heat Is On!

Barbarella was dancing around the living room, kicking and squealing, teeny head bobbing in time with her mummy’s. John had let the _Power Station_ LP skip the queue, the girl was literally bought up on it, so he was practically guaranteed to gain a new fan.

She was a _Power Station_ baby, literally and figuratively, no one could change his mind.

John couldn’t hide his joy as he bought his baby into his lap. He secured his stark white bass around them both, non sensical tones dropping off of his pink lips. He would never forget her reaction to _Some Like It Hot_ , Palmer’s silken voice flowing through the apartment, Thompson’s excellent drum beats, the crazy guitar man and then, John engulfed a shaky breath, his fingers dropped to his strings.

He was a little rusty, he missed the _Power Station_ like mad even though he had known from day one: it was a one shot deal. A one shot deal that had been extended again and again; having exceeded all expectations.

His fingers, unusually without calluses, hovered above his four strings. Closing his eyes, tongue worrying his bottom lip, he dived into _Get It On_ , a happy bouncing baby making it so much easier for John to find his flow.

“Well, you’re dirtynsweet, clad in black, don’t look back.”

John’s gaze shot open, there was a little pressure on his bass. Angling his head down, a smile gracing his lips, he saw the back of her little head - _since when had she had all that hair?! -_ her hands having clasped onto his bass and Barbarella was now whacking it. Miraculously, perfectly in time with the drum beat.

“And I, Barbie, wuv you!”

John could’ve fainted.

She whirled her head round to meet him whilst John, still strumming away, craned his head down. His lips met her fluffy little cheek once, then the other twice, before bopping her teeny nose and letting her clasp at his hair with a giggle. He grunted as he pulled it, laughing maniacally at John’s moment of pain!

“Alright, _alright!_ I get it! Listen to Robert sing, I’ll stop!” He was chuckling through his words, pulling away.

Then came his killer bass solo. Feeling the beats thrumming through him, the unmistakable pulsing notes, John strummed wild and totally stole the show. His head was bobbing in time, as was Barbarella’s. She kept her little mits at the side of his slick bass, as opposed to her mouth, banging away at it.

Her little whines sounded like heaven.

As the song drew to a close, Barbarella was merrily singing along and bouncing in his lap. John swung his bass to the side to twirl her around, picking her up and letting her soar.

“This Baby of _mine_ , is a killer!” He sang, smile bright and blinding.

Then, his heart was in his throat, he locked eyes onto Barbarella’s widened own. Her little lips were pursed, her skin flush with excitement and…

“You,” his eyes were beginning to cloud over with tears, “you’re.. doing it! That’s it, _that’s_ it, keep going!”

John’s voice was strained, he was trembling. He was desperate to hear such a beautiful, tiny sound from such a beautiful, tiny person.

Barbarella was giggling, clapping in time to _Murderess_. She had never clapped before and John could hear it, John could live her sound and vibe to her tempo.

“Of course it’s bloody _Murderess!_ ” He was elated, bringing his baby to rest on his shoulder, “it’s your favourite!”

He cried, hands running over Barbarella’s butt and taking a whiff out of habit, she was clean- thank fuck. He felt her shuffle to the side, legs splayed out, and now her head was resting on his leopard print- clad shoulder pad. John shivered at the delicate breaths tickling his left ear, bringing Barbarella in closer so her lips touched it. They were soft and small, placing a big wet patch on John’s neck. He grimaced before he laughed, mopping up her saliva and flicking it from his fingers.

“Mummy’s favourites are Bang A Gong, _Someday_ and _Communication_. What do you think daddy’s favourites are, baby?”

Before Barbarella had the chance to answer:

“You’re on home soil now, call it what it is.

Smiling, tingling, John followed.

“Get.”

“Get!”

“It.”

“It!”

“On.”

“On!”

“Get It On, John.”

“Get It On, John! Wait,” John shook his head, giggling, “Let’s _Get It On,_ Char- _lie_.”

It took him a moment to hear the happy-go-lucky squeals at his side.

“Barbie! Stop whacking your precious ikkle head into mummy’s shoulder pads!”

Barbarella basically flipped Simon off and slammed her head into the bouncy fabric again, John was cackling.

“Why is mummy wearing shoulder pads? Why are we all?!” Simon cried, electing more laughter from John. “Why is mummy wearing _leopard_?!” Simon, never the actor, threw a hand over his eyes and thoroughly overplayed his moment.

John, chuckling through it, spelt out: “Pink. Leopard. Ski. Trousers. Circa 1980…”

There was a guffaw, the game was on.

“You take that back.”

Stifling a laugh, “totally _punk_ huh, Simon? Totally what Duran needed?”

“Take it back,” Simon uttered, trying to refrain from slapping John around the pretty head.

“Skintight, with lil loops around the heels? Huh Simon, huh?” He taunted, waggling his eyebrows.

“It worked though, didn’t it John.”

Flashes to their inevitable first meeting ensued.

“ _Got me trapped_.”

Their first touch, hug, kiss…

“ _Playing with ya, like a cat!_ ”

Their first time…

_Scrape those fingers down my back, fuck yeah!_

“But seriously though, why _leopard_ all of a sudden?”

John shook the memory from him, about to be _entered_ …

With a pout, “don’tcha like it?”

There was a naughty glint in Simon’s eye. _Oh no._ Something was coming, something big to shake John out of it.

Biting into his bottom lip, John was totally not prepared for the tickle fight that ensued.

“W-what?! What… are we?! Agh, five!”

Simon’s hands stopped their teasing.

“Don’t stop!” John could barely breathe.

“Thought so.”

Barbarella, the little bugger, had clearly defected to her daddy’s side: grabby hands running all over John’s elongated neck as Simon attacked him practically everywhere else. He lurched over from behind John on the sofa, skilled fingers running in crazy patterns all over his torso. John was laughing like mad, then he hiccuped, begging Simon to stop before he and Barbarella sent him into overdrive!

Barely with any breath, John threw his head back atop of the sofa, lips parted and breaking out into a wide smile. He shook the mullet from his face as best as he could, sighing as another pair of hands proved much more useful. Eyes fluttering open, enhanced lashes fanning, John was seeing things upsidown but that didn’t stop him marvelling over the singer and his beauty.

The singer, who was now crouching behind the sofa, stealing quick kiss after kiss.

Barbarella gagged, with a chuckle erupting from above him; he and Simon parted.

“ _Cockblocker_.” John spat into his hand.

“She’s just making sure you don’t get knocked up again, is all. I don’t think she’ll want to be a big sister and have to share you so soon.”

“Piss off!” John was chuckling, right hand slamming into his knee as he threw his head back again. The sound was joyful, merry; coaxing Simon’s laughter to interweave with John’s own. The perfect pitch. “You’d love to be a big sister; wont’cha Barbie?!”

Barbarella pouted; eyebrows furrowing. Just like John would, a spitting image. _Holy shit!_

_Such an awesome show._

With a gasp, “oh, well _excuse_ me little Madame!”

“Keep that butt closed, John.”

“Hey!”

_Wait_.

“She means it.”

That was all that John had been doing. He hadn’t dared to let anyone get so close to him in such a way again. He couldn’t bare the thought of what had happened down there, what Simon had seen as he greeted (thankfully without fainting) his little miracle for the first time. John was still incredibly embarrassed, not just by how things had played out at _Live Aid_ but with the way he looked even now. How his insides were such a wreck. It also was a poorly covered secret that he was still struggling with his weight, his diet and general well being. On some level, even though John would curse a blue streak at the poor sod who tried to pipe up about it, he knew that.

It was a confidence thing mostly, perhaps he would blame Ni—

“—John?”

“Huh? Sorry Charlie, I didn’t hear…”

“Yeah, I noticed. I said,” Simon whirled around to the remote and flicked off the Hi-Fi system deafening him.

“Hey! Not during Harvest! We love that track, don’t we Barbie?”

She yelped, that was enough of an answer.

“See!” John noted, waggling his eyebrows. “Loves it.”

With a roll of his light blue eyes, Simon hoisted John up from seated and practically ushered him back into his bedroom.

“We’re leaving in twenty, put some damn clothes on already!”

“What’s wrong with this?” John gaped, running a hand down his leopard skin torso for emphasis.

“You always wear that! Plus the stupid hat. You may want to wear something a little more… accessible.”

“What?”

“Comfortable; I mean. It’s a long drive.”

Pouting, John shimmied up to the bedroom door and slammed it in a sly front man’s face.

“It’s _Some Like It Hot_ by the way.” The voice was distorted, trying to hammer its way through the heavy door.

John looked up from his hands. He cast a glance to Barbarella lolling about on the bed, once again enrapt with the satin sheets.

“Was that?” He began.

“It was me John, you idiot! Not the baby.”

Feeling his cheeks heat, “oh, right… what is?”

“My favourite on the album, John.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Simon kicked the door, “hurry up and change, Nick’ll be miffed no matter what time you show up!”

“True shit.”

“That Unkie of yours Barbie, I swear!” It was as though Simon read his thoughts.  
  


***  
  


“No, not _Arcadia_ please!”

“Oh I dunno Johnny, wouldn’t she want to hear more of her daddy’s, luscious, perfectly perfect vocals?”

“Whatever happened to _Rio_?!”

“She’s sat right next to you, Johnny.”

“Not _that_ Rio! The album Nick, c’mon, fight my corner man!”

“I’m sorry Nigel, it’s Charlie’s boat and so I think his cassettes win out.”

“What! We’re not even on the bloody boat yet, you asshole!”

“Language, Nigel.”

“Yeah _Ni-gel_! Baby, 9 o clock!”

“Shut it Charlie!”

“Make me.”

“Want me to wrestle that steering wheel away? Wanna plummet off of the edge of a cliff?”

…

“Yeah, I thought not! See, listen to that little giggle, my daughter agrees with me!”

“Our daughter.”

“Are you two going to argue about the music all the way to Dover?”

“… probably Nicholas.”

“Well then, compromise. _Seven And The Ragged Tiger_ it is.”

“Fuck no, Nick!”

“Language, Nigel.”

“Sorry Nicholas… _wanker_.”


	24. Waiting For The Night Boat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some plot.

Stumbling out of the car, Barbarella in hand, John stopped. His pulse rabbited, he was sweeping a hand across his suddenly sweaty forehead and his lips had dropped open. He was determined not to cry, lash out, or fall off of the edge. Or, be unceremoniously _thrown_ off of the edge.

_Wait, shit I did that to him. Poor bastard._

John just stood there, unable to hear a thing. As though he had already been submerged deep into the ocean, held underneath whilst the others frolicked on the yacht above him. He was trembling now, losing grip on his baby that he had to pass her down. Now clutching to the car, safe and dry _on land_ , it would take force from both Nick and Simon, Barbarella too, to pry him away from it.

_I ruined a totally good suit for him too._

“John, Johnny!” A slap in his face and he was shaken from it. “It’ll be fine, okay. Trust me, baby.”

“I, I don’t- ah!” John’s thoughts were swallowed by Simon’s tongue.

He pressed his lips deep into it, coaxing John to slip his eyes closed and to melt with him. Simon guided a hand up, running hot all over John’s skin, igniting little sparks in their wake. Simon tilted his head up, breath hot, and John was caught in his flame.

Breaking away, a small string of saliva between the two, John couldn’t help but beam. His gaze caught that of an open palm, took it, and bid goodbye to the sleek, noir _Mercedes_ he never actually drove. He didn’t turn back once, only focusing on the docks before him.

_How did they even fit all the luggage in there?_

Casting a glance out to sea, shivering with the breeze, John swallowed all his anxieties and inhibitions. He let them bleed away thanks to Simon’s warmth, his gorgeous smile and laughter. He lead the way, clutching tighter to the bassist who followed. Soon, John’s shuffles turned to strides, the heels of his boots clinking on the gravel beneath his feet.

With Nick, Simon and Barbarella by his side, being pelted with the fresh air of the English Channel, the small whiff of the Calais countryside wanting to welcome them, John was being beckoned over; riding the new high that was Simon’s pride and joy: _Drum_.

**DAY: APRIL 19**

Then, before he could register it, he was faced with the yacht in the flesh. Both John and Nick choked on their tongues. Her body was beautiful, the masts higher than anything John could’ve thought. She was gleaming, the sunlight casting a golden sheen over her already delightful white glow. She was sparkling, sails blowing in the light breeze, more than ready to whisk them away.

**TODAY IS: PHOTOSHOOT DAY**

Drum was calling to John and John was calling back.  
  


***  
  


He was a little shaky on board, having no sea legs, that was for sure. Drum was a hell of a lot different to the yachts that the band had had the non-pleasure in riding, ’82 in the Caribbean. It was totally different, a good twenty degrees hotter and the sun beating down around them over there was a sensation like no other…

John snapped out of it.

He was no yacht fan, that went without saying. He still felt as though the whole boating endeavour and _Rio_ had just painted them that picture of the perfect, up one’s own ass lifestyle that they never really had. _Only yachts, models, fancy holidays… with more yachts and models._ Sure, they had the money and the fact that Simon now literally had a boat did make him eat his words and all but.. Ugh, his thoughts were too cloudy to properly think it through.

He needed a drink now more than ever.

Nick and Simon were below deck, the keyboardist using those talented fingers to work wonders on Simon’s tan skin. His hair was back to blonde now, John had been momentarily blinded by the halo that the sunlight had painted around him. John was caught in that trance, in awe as the light radiated off of him.

Of course Simon was shining, being above the water was his thing. It was where he belonged, dangling from the sails and riding the yacht’s tip (or whatever it was called- nose?) like John had seen (and nearly thrown up over seeing) him do on countless boat trips around the world.

John couldn’t help himself, clutching tight to Drum’s handrails and engulfing the salt in the air, but think out loud.

“How in the hell is Nick, of all remaining Duran’s, dealing with this? All of this?!”

John worried his bottom lip, catching sight of the line of ferry’s waiting to dock.

“Why can’t we be on one of ‘em!” He pointed, for no one other than himself. “High up, stable, first class service, a proper holiday… Christ, what did you get yourself into John.”

“Taylor!”

He couldn’t quite let go of the railing and parade across the deck yet. He cautiously turned around, hands prying themselves off so fast it was as though the railing was burning beneath him, before John latched back onto them so they could cool his ‘heated’ skin. He was breathing a little more erratically now, struggling to focus on Simon before him.

With a giggle, the singer paraded over to him. With another giggle, the singer yanked him from the rails and hoisted John up into his arms. John flailed about, kicking Simon in the shin and, the bastard, he only laughed harder.

John, having something that could probably resemble a temper tantrum, flushed and pouted in Simon’s ready grip. He kicked out again, before he was put back down. John watched, eyes narrowed, as Simon began slipping below deck, chuckling and clutching at his chest. John stumbled down the steps. Then, John practically crashed to the floor, now submerged deep within the bowels that was Drum.

John refused to stand back up, clutching to the floor as it bobbed lightly beneath him. He could practically hear the words _it’s a boat Johnny, that’s what they’re meant to do_ dropping from Simon’s lips as he smirked, holding out a hand that John didn’t take.

There were plenty of reasons as to why John had refused to clamber onto Simon’s and the Berrow Brothers, Duran’s managers since day one, latest investment. Curse Paul, for his damn boating fetish.

_Was that even a thing? A boat fetish? Water is one, ain’t it, wouldn’t the sea be one too?_

“Yeah John, some people find it hot to be atop of a _yacht_.”

John’s gaze widened, how had Simon even..?

“Uh, okay?”

“Get up Johnny. The makeup guru is waiting to see you.”

_Oh yeah, right. Photoshoot._

Struggling to hide the little smile as it crept across his lips, John held a cautious hand out and let Simon pull him back up to standing. He wobbled about a bit, ignoring Simon’s laughter and his _we aren’t even bloody moving yet, Johnny_ comments as they were headed his way.


	25. Tell Me All You Dream About

“Are you sure you want me to put some on her? It all naturally sourced so it’s safe but, Nigel; are _you_ sure? I know Charlie said that he—”

Eyes ripping themselves from his own reflection, now glowering over to the keyboardist. “I _tried_ to say that when ya both came up with this hair-brain scheme! She’ll be fussy with it, you know!” He barked, gaze now back on himself.

John pouted. Dropped it. He smiled. Dropped it. He ran a hand through his teased hair, feeling the slick of the hairspray stick to him. There was an odd caution about him, an edge. There was a hell of a lot riding on these images and John had to get it right, there would be no do-overs. Anything goes. Although the bassist had to admit, Nick was totally right about him having the blonde highlights. They seemed to suit him quite nicely, here.

“Oh for fudge sake!”

Barbarella was wailing, bottom lip quivering and little face plastered in tears as Nick’s hand stalled. There was a sigh in frustration from the keyboardist and John’s heart snapped in two. He sprinted, as well as he could trapped in the vessel, over to them both and hugged Barbarella tight.

She was dressed in a small, black and silver swimming costume. There was a little sparkly frill around her mid section, that her hands had grabbed and were trying to rip off. There were small patterns coating her face which, as noted by Nick, were waterproof but somehow not tear proof. John still wasn’t too fond of painting her like this, whether she matched him or not it didn’t matter but for his best friends and the artist within him; he had relented.

He was right, knowing deep down that she would be more than fussy. His poor baby was petrified. She couldn’t even recognise him, covered in the body paint that Nick had so lovingly caressed his cheeks with.

“Barbie _please_ , please don’t cry!” He hoisted her up, still screeching, over his painted shoulder. “Please, hush, hush.”

John bobbed up and down, mumbling, begging for her to quieten down and to be that happy little shining star of the show again.

“Hey, it’s me! Mummy’s here. L-look here, baby, _here!_ ” He shoved his hair into her face, all teased and up tight.

Barbarella wouldn’t take it.

“She, shit, she… the paint, it’s scaring her. Not just on herself but on me.”

John felt his own tears form. He wouldn’t dare to release them, mess up Nick’s handiwork.

“Please baby, please.” He begged.

“Why not have Charlie sing to her, that may help?”

“ _No_ ,” he answered a little too fast. “He’s up top with his crew, leave him be. Uh,” he cleared his throat, “let me.”

“Nigel? Don’t you even think about singing in my pres—”

“—I’m just gonna hush my child Nick!” He screamed, plonking him and Barbarella down atop one of the makeup cases.

John’s gaze widened over his outburst, his lips were moving and he couldn’t form any words: thoroughly under Nick’s scrutiny as he towered over them both. Shunning away, John bought a gut-wrenching, shrieking Barbarella into his arms, cradling her mere inches from the patterns coating his face.

Engulfing a shaky breath, feeling his cheeks heat as the keyboardist crouched at his side: John let rip.

“S-stay in line, till we… we run out of time. You, ahem, let the river run dry.

He cast a nervous glance to Nick, who cocked his head in confusion.

“Take it, take it, take all of my mind. But keep my heart alive.”

Nick’s smile caressed his beautiful, pastel pink lips.

“Shake it, shake it, shake all of my life up. Don’t let my blood run dry. Move it, move it, keep it right on time. Don’t ever get out of line.”

John began rocking her with his words, she was still crying but he was yet to find the beat.

“Don't let my blood run dry. Don't let the river run dry. Don't ever let it, never. Barbie, please never let it—”

Her cries began to dull, into choked off sobs. John paused, biting his bottom lip. He turned to Nick for guidance, reassurance, anything. He simply nodded, with a firm smile on his lips.

“ _Tell Me All You Know._ Tell me all you dream about. Never let it show. Never let your heart catch fire…”

Barbarella’s breaths began to deepen, her hands coming to rest on John’s own grasped around her. He wasn’t shaking anymore, he didn’t care as to what Nick made out of his voice.

_She recognises me._

For once, little could he believe it, his voice wasn’t poor. He sounded good, in time, riding the highs and keeping his pitch with it. Barbarella, his biggest fan no matter what, was right there with him: now smiling beautifully.

_She knows mummy’s still here._

“ _Tell Me All You Know_. Tell me all you dream about. Never let it show. Barbie, you never let your _heart_ catch fire!” He ended with a breath, before kissing her damp cheeks all over.

_I love you so much, baby Taylor._

“That was…” Nick was stunned, eliciting a small beam of pride from not too deep within John. “Wow, Nigel, I, she’s silent… well done.”

_… Le Bon._

“Thank you,” his voice dropped, overcome with embarrassment again. “Go easy on her Nick, I’ll go find—”

“—John?”

_Taylor. Le. Bon._

His gaze widened, he stiffened and a full body shiver overtook him. Chancing a glance up, all his fears and anxieties rushing up to smack in the face, John was caught in the singer’s headlights: overcome with worry. He gnawed into his cuticles, the main sign of it, he couldn’t bear to lock eyes with Simon.

Simon, who was now stood right before him.

“John, baby,” he began, a little speechless, “where… where did…”

“ _That_ come from?” John spoke before he could stop himself, shoving his hand back to rest at his side.

Simon nodded, curious.

John desperately wanted to tell him, to sing more of the tracks he had locked away. They hadn’t been wanted, shunned and disregarded but to John, no matter what anyone would say, they were _special_. They meant something to him. They were something to be proud off. He had the material for a full solo album, a good ten tracks or so, a few of which were daring instrumentals that could totally hold their own: with a thorough and consistent sound worth hearing.

But John didn’t want those public now. He wasn’t a solo singer and wouldn’t push for it, that just wasn’t the right thing to do at this time. One track was enough. And yet; this wasn’t the only solo song he had up his sleeve for when she needed him to wipe her tears.

This one was for Barbie, _Tell Me All You Know_ being one of their favourite lullaby’s: his most favourite of his whole collection. Then followed their mutual love for _Shine On_ , which John had serenaded her with long before she had started falling into dreamland to Simon’s much stronger and refined vocal. She had these songs memorised, John thought, having been gifted the chance to hear them in full so many precious times.

She knew they were John and only John. His voice and vocal tendencies. His pitch and his rhythm.

But John didn’t tell Simon, he wasn’t sure why, he just couldn’t let his songs loose. They were too important, a symbol of he and Barbarella in places, something special and private. He was _petrified_ over what Simon would say about these lyrics, _mortified_ as to what Nick would think of the synths. How they would respond to the lack of his bass, in places. How they would laugh at his attempts, the Bowie-esque tones, at holding his own.

_Shine On, John. Shine On._

Although he was trembling, mind cloudy with all his inhibitions, John couldn’t keep himself away from Simon’s readily pursed lips. John swiftly placed his ruby stained lips into Simon’s own. The kiss was soft, long and tender, together they created a new shade by mixing the _Dior_ lipstick John wore with Simon’s nude palette. John broke away smiling, feeling much more at ease and accepted: unlike before.

_Shine On._

He breezed past them both, Simon and Nick who had Barbarella in his arms, grabbing his discarded jacket before heading back out to the top deck. He needed a moment alone, a moment to gather his thought, before the camera could roll.

Maybe someday John would have the confidence to release his solo work into the world however today just wasn’t that day.


	26. All Night Long She Can Two-Step And Sway

_Hues of graceful green blurred into beautiful blue, swirling throughout the tides. Laced with foam, the waves swayed into the sand, coating it with a dark shine. Littered with specs of the finest silver and pearl, the sand would glimmer as the vibrant sun rays danced their way down to touch it. To caress it, coating the shore in a gleaming gold._

But here, there was no sand. Just the sun casting down rays of joy, elevating his spirits as further into the blue they dove. Deeper down, being submerged with the sea breeze; the little pellets of water striking his teased hair, the colour on his cheeks.

Gripping to the hand rail, removing his sunglasses, casting a final glance out to sea: John broke away with a swing in his step.

Simon was by his side, holding his hand tight; yelling to some of the guys steering to properly man the sails. To keep watch, as further from the shore they went, Drum was whirring to life under his very hand. Swaying from side to side, still a little uneasy on his feet, John held out two cautious hands to the sleeping bundle of joy being cradled in Nick’s tender arms.

“Wake up, beautiful.” It slipped off of John’s lips.

A simple kiss, a brush of those gleaming pillar box lips, and the precious little life began to stir. She was gleaming, flailing about in John’s grip. It seemed as though she had a love for the water just like her daddy, reaching out and daring to touch it, letting the rich aroma fill her teeny nostrils and soak up the scene.

“And when she shines, she really shows you all she can.” Simon sang, motioning John to back him up.

Barbarella was shining, really showing them both all that she can.

“Oh Rio, Rio,” John did so, voice growing stronger and stronger; the closer he was to Simon. “Dance across the Rio Grande.”

_Do do, do do d-do. Do do, do do d-do._

As if on cue, the needle was dropped and they got to work. Both Simon and John were coated in those abstract swirls and tribal patterns, reminiscent of John’s photoshoot back in Antigua: pride radiating from him so bright that not even the Caribbean sunlight could steal it from him, only beat down around him and add to his already joyful guise.

_Save A Prayer_ , of all tracks, was flowing beautifully through the sea breeze. Adding to the scene, setting it, bringing back the nostalgia in waves that John could thoroughly soak up and ride through. No inhibitions, no take backs.

John, as before, was painted in his screaming scarlet but this time: without the blaring black. There was a removal of the danger, the unease and uncertainty on his skins. His makeup was a sight to marvel over, a thick cat eye and bold lips lighting up his pasty skin. His trousers were tight, the studs on the sides glistened in the sun light.

John would never forget the look on Simon’s handsome face as he had strolled back to the top deck, chains clinking at his sides. They were the pair the singer had bought him for his birthday, all those lonesome months back in New York. Without letting those memories overcome him, sweep him out to sea, John shook his head and smiled instead; full of love and adoration.

Full of knowing that everything would be okay.

To match John yet to still let his own personality shine through; the patterns on Simon’s skin waltzed merrily in a bright cobalt blue, running up his tan arms and smoothing out his complexion with it.

Nick, the genius, had insisted on Barbarella being a mixture of the two as, of course, that’s what she was. A combination of both personalities, genes, traditions and lifestyles all rolled up into a small; treasured package.

Gleaming, a huge smile firmly in place as she clutched to her mummy’s flowing hair, Barbarella had teeny drops of purple added to her soft skin. A perfect mixture of the two, their union. The promises Simon had made to John and the love that he was finally ready to be giving back. To share with the world.

Twirling around, Barbarella holding on tight, John’s bangles jingled as she was fascinated with them. The silver one, rich with noir stones, twinkled differently in this light: catching both Barbarella and her mummy in its trance, how it was gleaming against John’s skin. John’s body shivered as there was a heat at his back, Simon’s body blanketing them both. He couldn’t stretch his arms out this time but, as Nick had rightfully suggested, the chiffon was back. The cloth was even longer this time, waltzing behind both bodies and wrapping them lovingly in it. Down to the mast, it was that extravagant.

“I never, you know, asked you ‘bout it?” John began, licking his lips in that slow and meticulous way he often did. “The first one?”

The pregnancy photoshoot. Simon had no say in that matter, halfway across the world recording…

“Absolutely _stunning_ Johnny,” he whispered, before kissing John’s ear. “You’ve never looked so wonderful, the body paint… the red in your hair…”

Backlit by the fading white cliffs, the crucial three posed close, Simon stood behind to clutch and massage John’s inky shoulders. The singer’s strong grip enveloped his giggling _Notorious_ babies in his tight grip.

Finding his hands to be ever so comforting, a little teasing, John relaxed immediately: letting Simon guide them both closer to the edge of Drum, knowing that there was no way John could fall.

***  
  


John had been surprised with the weekend away in Calais, France, without knowing that Drum wasn’t going to make that sacred U-turn and send him back to shore. How Nick had managed to scurry around his place and pack a suitcase without him knowing was beyond him, _maybe Renée had helped?_ Although John figured, it was probably best that he didn’t question it.

_Call mother, rearrange the date._

He wondered momentarily if Paris was on the agenda, whether Paris was even an option. John hadn’t returned to the so-called ‘City Of Love’ since the infamous, unmentionable shoot. The one that left a stain on his soul as he watched the parties divide right before his very eyes: where one went left; the others went right.

_She’d love to hear about the shoot, I’m sure._

Thankfully that awful Eiffel Tower endeavour, no matter what the media may have swirled about it, went unmentioned. Had done, practically ever since. John was relieved: it was Calais and only Calais. He could live with that.

_Put Simon on the line… sing her a little something? She hasn’t heard from Nick in forever…_

He still couldn’t live with the guilt that had plagued him since that fateful day, May 18th 1985 (a whole month later than planned) but, with Simon and Nick by his side this time; with no _Arcadia_ , he could disembark Drum with a smile and enjoy this trip.

Calais was another entity entirely. John didn’t know too much about the place and they were to be keeping close to the docks, the port, but that didn’t stop him soaking up the sun.

They did things normal couples would do. Normal friends would do. Small tokens of affection were hidden from the press, picnics and home cooked meals hidden away in a small rented cottage not too far from where Drum bobbed atop the Channel.

They would write lyrics, lazing under the sun, John strumming away on his guitar he never played. Maybe he should whip her out more often, again he wondered how he missed seeing that in the car boot. Nick would hum as Simon let those sacred words roll, sometimes stumbling over his tongue and bringing the other Durans down with him; into a laughing fit turn tickle fight, wrestling John to the ground as his hair splayed itself atop of the grass. And thus, a new track was born:

**_American Science._ **

Simon and John lay together both nights, shy hands wandering over clothing and the skin John had to hide. They would kiss slowly, thoroughly, locked lips dancing together as John found the courage to press himself further into it. To lose himself in the sensation, wallow in the high that was Simon, the intoxicating aura of having their daughter sleeping soundly in a room they could both share.

**_All night long, she can two-step and sway._ **

John had his fears in one hand, his hopes and dreams in the other.

**_It’s such poor manners._ **

One night the rain pelted the small window, casting the cottage bedroom in a low blue glow, he couldn’t was restless; a victim to his lonesome nightmare. Resting against the headboard, refraining from slamming his head back into it, John found solace by watching as a sleeping singer rolled onto his side to face him, hand now resting atop of John’s thigh.

**_Don’t keep me waiting,_ **

A small smile caressed the bassist’s face, upon seeing the silver glint cast on them both, the moonlight creeping in through the thin curtains. His smile was growing, reaching down to lace his calloused fingers in Simon’s smooth own. At that, sending sparks through him, a murmur of something vaguely resembling “I _love_ you, John,” dropped off of those heavenly lips before the singer dozed off again.

**_Come and lie beside me._ **

John clutched at him tighter, bangles clinking as he slid back down the bed. Entwining his limbs with Simon’s own, engulfing the singer’s scent, John buried his head into Simon’s bare chest; the fabric of his silken shirt making a small ‘whooshing’ sound. John wouldn’t be letting his grip falter.

Then, in a mere breath, his words rolled with such a conviction that he couldn’t help but beam.

“I _love_ you too, Charlie.”


	27. Leave Her Outlaw, She’s Having Fun

Inching deeper into May, John awaited anxiously for the fifth; when his mother was finally coming to see him. A little later than planned sure but, Jean didn’t seem to mind.

Simon and John had been talking a whole hell of a lot, things were happening and the relationship was on the upward curve again. John was delighted, he really was, he seemingly couldn’t wait for that familiar knock on his apartment door (the rhythmical one, somehow resembling _Girls On Film_ ) and he would be bouncing over to unlatch it. Bouncing more so than Barbarella on his shoulder and Nigel on his perch.

They had plenty to discuss, Simon and John, personally. There was the matter of the album too, of course, but for the moment they had mutually agreed to let it wait a little longer.

The contract demanded November, they had been at odds with their timings before and _Notorious_ was no exception. They would make it work, they always did. And besides, they were still waiting to hear from the fourth Duran…

The fifth rolled around ever so fast, John’s heart was racing as he got the call that she was about to leave Birmingham, by coach. He totalled the time, factoring in the likelihood of the goddamn M25 being at a standstill - the most hellish motorway in England, it seemed - and waited patiently.

A couple nights prior John and Nick had gone on a mass cleaning spree, after John’s cleaner hadn’t lived up to his sudden expectations. It would be the best and only the best for Mamma Taylor, okay!

When Jean arrived, John threw himself into her open arms before she even had the chance to place her suitcase down. Pulling away he caught sight of her fond smile, tugging at her nude lips. John had almost knocked her glasses from her face, as well as his own, although her cat eyes were much more elegant and poised framing her face than the thick rims he wore. Still wore, had been prescribed since he was about five.

Wherever Jean stepped, head held high, the room seemed to glow. She lit up John’s apartment with her very presence, the regalia about her. For a Brummie housewife, a declared Cathaholic by her son, she really was something. Like John, she would cling to the music and now would cling to his success: priding herself and the Taylor clan with it. _This_ Taylor clan, there were just so many!

“ _Hold Me_. Lay your ghost away. Show me, for yourself!” John sang, giggling over how pitchy he was.

Jean was smiling, her granddaughter in her lap clapping along with her. John found it funny, how Barbarella had straightened up and latched onto her Mamma Taylor just like that. How she didn’t want her to leave the room, whining if she did. How she clung to every gift and precious Taylor household trinket she had bought with her.

A particular funny memoir was being written right now, Jean having ‘sampled’ a collection of Jo- _Nigel’s_ baby clothes and toys. Months ago, back in Hollywood, John had taken a wad of his things hoping that his little miracle would love them.

Although of course, there were no dresses.

John could afford the world for her, something his mother has strived endlessly to do so and yet the finances were always a barrier. He had a humble upbringing but _he_ had made _his_ riches, he would flaunt them when he wanted to and when it came to Barbarella… boy, did he flaunt them.

Which is why it amused John to no end, how she kept gravitating to his old and tattered baby toys. A half chewed, no longer so white rabbit now in his daughter’s grip.

Letting Jean and Barbarella have a lovely conversation, about Nigel probably – Jean’s Nigel, not the parrot Nigel – John upped to her bedroom to fetch some more current, contemporary toys.

Without really thinking, he clasped a box of them that were new gifts for her. John couldn’t even really remember what was in there, he had been saving the sea of plushy, fluffy thingys for a special occasion. His mother being back, enveloping him in her arms, seemed like the perfect time to treat Barbarella again.

John could’ve thrown up, upon seeing which new toy she chose.

“Barbie uh, that’s… that’s not… why was _that_ in there?” He was puzzled, eyes fleeting to what Barbarella was clutching too. “Barbie please, give that too mum—”

“—You’re going to take your child’s toy from her?” His mother posed, voice small. Her brows furrowed and lips pursed, motioning to Barbarella playing merrily before them.

“Uh,” John croaked out, embarrassment seeping in. “That wasn’t meant for, you know Mum, er… _her_.”

God, he felt awful. He really wanted back his prized possession that had been on the road with him. Had comforted him on those gruelling tours, life bleeding out of him as they strived to make state after state without dropping off in exhaustion. They had shared many late night, in depth conversations. John had shared his hopes and dreams, he had confided and let out his inner most secrets. Surely Barbarella would want to play with a much newer… her own, personal sidekick rather than—

“—Leonard.” His mother’s voice was firm. “She really loves Leonard The Lion John, look at her.”

Wrapping her smooth hand in her son’s, who’s bottom lip was quivering, together they crouched before the happy baby who was clutching John’s beloved stuffed animal close to her chest. She was squealing, beaming with it.

Eyeing her son, Jean’s voice dropped to that familiar and thoroughly missed caring tone. “Have you ever seen her so happy?”

John snuck a hand out, desperate to wrap his mits around his toy. His road trip buddy. His adult comfort blanket because adults could totally have those still.

Barbarella turned to the side, scooting on her butt away from John which provoked a small giggle from his mother. In retaliation John tried again, to pry Leonard from her grubby little mits.

Barbarella wouldn’t budge.

She was smiling, laughing and giggling. Holding Leonard tight, his golden fur wrapped in her grabby hands. She was rocking with him in her grasp, eyes locked onto that mane full of wonder and bemusement. She was looking into his beady eyes in awe, before shoving an ear into her mouth.

“Barbie _don’t!_ ” That hurt him to watch.

“John,” there was a small giggle and a hand at his back. “Son, let it go. Your little podge has made her choice.”

Barbie cackled in response, before immediately taking Leonard’s other ear into her mouth and sucking lightly.

John swallowed down the tears, not that he was sure why they were forming. Then, he relayed his mother’s words and swung a confused head back to her. Taking her hand in his own, gaze locking on her nude fingertips, he nodded.

“What did you say? Little what?”

Something resembling a smirk, not that John could believe it, seemed to sweep her nude lips. “Little podge.”

“You _what_?!”

Nodding to her darling Barbarella, now rolling about on the carpet with Leonard’s fur blanketing her, Jean explained.

“Your stomach, John. The beautiful baby weight you were so desperate to hide. There was a glow about it, you know. The podgey-ness about it, it really amused your father and I… don’t ask why, I really couldn’t comprehend it myself. It’s cute, son, I cannot help it!”

John rolled it about in his mouth. “Is that even a word? Sounds crazy British though, something old? Nostalgic?”

Barbarella began to clap, a little cheerful sound filling the small space between them. At that, Jean nodded. John still had his questions.

It was a nickname that she had somehow acquired, after having watched her son strut about the Eiffel Tower with such a shame about hiding himself, keeping his baby weight out of the spotlight. Somehow, the nickname had become a staple back in Hollywood and; although it confused John somewhat, he was warming up to it.

Besides, the Duran’s did have some very odd nicknames. See, for example, _Tigger_ and _Frog_ —

“Barbarella ‘the _podge_ ’” he eyed his mother as he tried to make sense of it, “Diana Taylor Le Bon… Barbarella Diana ‘the _podge’_ Taylor Le Bon? Well Mum erm, that’s quite somethin’.”

It was just a Taylor thing to do.

Shuffling so his back was now flush with the sofa, John held out an arm and buried his mullet into his mother’s neck. She smelt divine, of fresh tulips... perhaps she and Jacko were having their go at gardening. It was wonderful weather to give ‘green fingers’ a try. 

“I love you, Mum,” he sniffed, slightly mumbled. “We, Barbie and I, _wuv_ you so much!”

With a delicate hand, Jean wrapped her son in even closer; placing a light kiss to the top of his forehead, sweeping his bangs from it.

“Are you still okay to watch her over the weekend?” John sounded coy, lips quirking up as his mother’s delicate laughter filled his ears.

“And that is why you’re acting so affectionate!”

The cheeky sod grinned. John had been a very good boy. He hadn’t mixed with the wrong crowd, he hadn’t actually been out into the crowd in months. He was eager to get back out there, knowing that he was feeling more confident about showing his face again. Showing Duran again.

“Of course, you have fun on your night out; son.”

Glowing, John replied, “Thank you! I’ll be back around 1-2 ish, I have an interview in the morning. First thing.”

“Will Simon be with you?” At the mention of ‘Simon’ Barbarella shrieked, “she’s missing her dad again, isn’t she?”

With a small smile, answer muffled into his mother’s neck, “yes. Yes to both of those.”

“Ah, good.”

John pressed his lips into his mother’s warmth, a short but loving peck before he settled back onto her shoulder; both Taylors swooping over each other, huddling together nice and comfy.

“Come here, my darling Barbarella. Come on!” Jean beckoned her over, rhythmical tones full of joy. “Come on beautiful, mummy wants a hug.”

John piped up, breaking away.

Laughing, “yeah, mummy wants a hug.” He was on his knees, dropping down to pat them eagerly. Seeing what she would do, hoping it wouldn’t be throwing poor Leonard The Lion in his face.

“No- no, _Notorious!_ C’mon my No-no, _Notorious_ baby!” John kept tapping his knees.

And that, John lost it with the flood banks, was the most precious sight he had seen.

Barbarella was crawling, shuffling towards her mummy with a huge, cheeky grin in place that screamed ‘Nigel.’ No questions asked. He swept down to haul her in, holding her high above him so Barbarella was soaring; her little laughs were precious and John’s tears kept flowing.

“Simon would love to have seen that.” Jean’s voice was small, affectionate and yet it still stung.

How many more firsts was Simon to miss? How many had John missed himself when he was there but never truly _there_.

Frowning, bringing her back down to Earth, John shook the thought from his mind. He would mark it in his calendar: a week with Mamma Taylor and she was clapping and had just crawled for the first time. She was growing more and more by the day, John was struggling to keep up.

***  
  


Lights blared, cameras flashed, together they strutted in, feeling the heat and falling victim to it. Music blared, a harsh dream that demanded a bass to rile that beat. His hands were everywhere, sneaking under cloth, clutching at skin, stumbling further into the thick: the smell; the sheer desire to let loose putting him under.

The night was creeping fast, blurring the line between what was fun and what he needed to keep going. He easily fell back into step, mackin’ on a couple rich, white sods along the way, hands in their hair; hands on his ample chest.

Every one was extra, the place reeked of extravagance and pride in being different. Abnormal, having that artistic taste that they blamed for their actions.

Drinks were everywhere. Only men like him, privileged, knew how to get more. What _else_ was on offer there.

Shot after shot. Line after line. How did he even break away? Beat after beat. Lick after lick. Where did he even get too?

The manor was swirling, lights rushing up to hit him, making him tumble to the floor amongst a hoard of sweaty guests. He’d lost his tie, his blazer was hanging from the ceiling fan at one point. By the time he came up for air, another line was gone.

_A step to the left._

Where had Simon gone?

_He’s a flick to the right, John. Can’t you see?_

John’s head shot up, cloudy and blinded by the ruby lights that paved the way for him. He caught sight of something, a red blotch that was moving. Strutting over to him, cornering him, John losing himself in those heady eyes.

He huffed another line in retaliation, jittering as he wiped at his powdered nose.

_You’ll catch Simon, way out west._

John could only nod, eyes wide and jaw slack. He found himself fighting to move, fighting to take that precious step. Then, a huff of air, he was running, sprinting straight for it with his arms out and eager eyes perfectly set on—

He fell face first to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as though I should explain the whole ‘podge’ thing.
> 
> ‘Lil podge’ and ‘podgey’ belly are actually nicknames my mother uses for John in the music video _A View To A Kill! _and in 1985 as a whole. Although I’m still not too sure if it’s a real word, or how to properly spell it, it sounds hella British and we find it cute: John’s little preggers belly! Not that my mother really knows she inspired this AU...__


	28. Wherever We Are, We’re Miles And Miles From Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allie, this is all _your _fault.__

“Imm.. ona.. ride and I wanna… GET OFF!”

Stumbling his way up to the apartment, tripping and laughing the whole damn way; he fumbled with the key, told himself to keep mute, and practically fell through the front door.

“But they.. won.. sloww dowown tha… uh.. that…”

He couldn’t read his watch. He couldn’t read period.

“ _Roundabow-wowt!_ ”

His poor singing was matched suddenly, rivalled by a little shriek that had him clutching at his ears, seeing white and screeching himself as he collapsed to the floor. He fell face first into his own soiled blazer and he licked desperately at whatever the hell juices, drinks or otherwise, were now covering it. That and, somehow he hadn’t lost them along the way, the feathers that were stuck to him.

He also had a crown. Not quite fitting for John but for her Majesty, _yes darling!_

“When had he… fuck!”

Two slippers met his line of sight, John cautiously rose his gaze; gaping. He miraculously made it to his knees, shoving his hands into his blazer pocket, bowing his head. His mullet was messy, falling into his eyes and sticking to his sweaty mullet. The scene was tense, even John ‘every cocktail under the sun’ Taylor wasn’t wasted enough to miss that right now. He may have been far from on the beat but, straightening up again, he felt another heat at his back which told him to shut up.

He was caught in the crossfire, blushing deep underneath the mullet. His gaze was weary, cheeks heated, he didn’t know where to look first. Thankfully, another soul crushing shriek from before him, a flushed little face, snapped him out of it: full of guilt and despair. Barbarella’s tiny face was buried in his mother’s hair, Leonard The Lion in hand, who was shattered and slouching. Something she would never do, she had too much poise and respect for herself to let herself crumble in such a way. So John knew, trying to knock the dull headache from him, she had been up all night and this wasn’t going to end well for anyone. No matter what bullshit excuse he had under his scrunched up (jizzed up) blazer sleeve.

Then, “ahem, John.”

Panting, taking a sudden gulp, he whirled around and fell straight into those unwelcome arms.

“We said two hours, John.”

“D-did,” he coughed, fighting to stand up alone, “did _we_ … hehe… now?” He was giggling softly, right into that elongated neck.

“Get off of me. I’m taking her back to bed.” The voice spat, taking his crazy baby podge with him. “Ugh, you could follow. Give her your breasts? _Feed_ her? Like you should have two hours back?”

“Why didn’t ya just.. in the _fridge_ …”

_I’d like to be a fridge._

“You seen what’s in your fridge John?”

_To stay cool… Smash Hits always ask the stupidest questions…_

John shook his head.

_I’m always cool, uh hello!_

He was half trailing the other way, before comically whirling around on his heel to saunter straight past his silently fuming mother… until she caught him by the hem of his blazer and yanked him back.

Then, in a complete 180 of character, her voice was gruff and forceful. “Feed her, put her to sleep and get yourself right back out here. Do you hear me, Nigel?”

_Nigel._

The parrot was awake too, goddamnit.

“Nigel!”

“Yes.. yes, I, mum I hear you.” He stumbled over his words, a shaky hand on his shirt buttons. “What, you know, even is…”

“The _time?_ ”

“T-that, yeah.”

“Oh I don’t know, son, near five AM?”

“ _Shit_.”

John traipsed his way back into his living room and things got heated, real fucking fast. John was on the sofa, desperate to keep quiet as the other adults did the same. His mother towered above him, voice straining as together she and (he had only now realised) _Simon_ laid into him.

“… responsibilities that are more _important_ than…”

“Back to your _old ways_ and… already…”

It was a party for Christ’s sake but he had responsibilities now, Simon didn’t even want to be there in the first place.

“Didn’t you learn anything in Montserrat?... Munich… Toronto…”

“Who’s idea even was that joy ride?”

Reluctantly he had given John two hours, hadn’t left his side the entire time. Until John, the drugged up stealth, had ordered him away and fucked off with a load of stragglers to go and beg for crack on some asshole dealers door.

_Bastard had it coming_ , John snorted.

“… Poor girl has been screaming all night… she knows when you’re not here…”

_And I ra-a-an,_

Simon had gone running after him, thoroughly lost in the black of night, before realising his time was up and (to John, anyway) his ‘time’ at the ball was over: his carriage would be turning back into a pumpkin before he could get back to his baby, where he would’ve much rather have been anyways.

_I ran so far a-weh-eh-ay! Hey! With much better hair them those seagulls._

“… inconsiderate, reckless little…”

And had waited four hours to find her mummy, singing in the middle of the street with some other asshole stragglers from the Mercury residence.

_It was a party, darling!_

“What kinda person just _does_ that?”

_For the Queen._

“Haven’t you any respect? And you want _us_ to go public!”

_How doth one decline another Royal Paki invitation?_

“What’ll the press say… first time your out…”

_Woah… racist…_

To John, the whole thing was a blur as always but that was nothing new. What was new was his mother. That unknown variable who never had to put up with his selfish/totally _Johnny_ antics before and…

_Oh hey! It’s you again._

“She knows when you’re _killing_ yourself, John! Explain that! Your seventh month old daughter, she freaking knows that!”

_Whatcha doin?_

_…._

_Gonna play the silent game, are we? Cunt._

“Will you stop fuckin’ _staring_ at me!” John yelled, burying his face in his hands as he crumbled once more. “Ain’t you got anythin’ better to do?!”

But John wasn’t attacking Simon or Jean, he hadn’t said a word the entire silent row: desperate to bite his tongue and now his lips were bleeding at keeping quiet.

“Did you hear me?!”

“John, please, hush.”

The figure was back, clad in a rich blue blazer that was shredding all around him the more John cried and cried.

“Come on! If you’ve got shit to say, then fuckin’ _say_ it!”

“John, please, keep the noise—”

“—Fuck you and your noise, Charlie!” John spat, tears streaming, “Get the hell out of here, _now!_ ”

Simon didn’t move.

_Don’t say a prayer for yourself now, John. No don’t say a prayer for yourself now._

The figure was at John’s back, a ghostly hand was on his shoulder. John threw his head up, shucking him away and once again, heart in his throat, he watched as the figure disintegrated. Laughing this time, smashing a bottle of champagne and laughing.

Simon’s voice was stern, “Jean, you’re welcome to spend the remainder of the night at mine. Stay as long as you’d like. We’ll take Barbarella with us.”

“Oh, fuck right off Charlie.”

“Don’t you _dare_ speak to the father of your child like that.” Jean spat, already on her way back to the baby’s bedroom.

Sniggering, John crooked a finger that was not at all in Simon’s direction. “Take ‘er then, asshole.”

Barbarella wouldn’t be returning for a week, not that John heard those arrangements.

_Nice one John, save it till the morning after._

***  
  


Slouching, slurring and savouring the moment, John drowned on. Eyes droopy and lips parted, he stuttered with his words and hyped up his movements to compensate.

**Can you blow me a kiss?**

_Of course, sweet heart._

He should’ve been a good boy. He should’ve gone to bed.

**You have beautiful eyes, can you show me them?**

_Eyes wide, don’t lie!_

He shouldn’t have been partying with Freddie Mercury and doing blow in the bathroom. Again.

**Can I have a kiss!**

_Another kiss? Seriously._

**Have you been back to Birmingham, lately?**

_Have you been to Birmingham, the fuckin’ dive… That squat don’t deserve my ass…_

Insulting the entire population of Birmingham was the final straw.

He should’ve been a good boy. He should not have ran his tongue.

Before long he was practically being wrestled by the phone cord, stoned self letting - _oh, who was it again… oh yeah, Canada_ \- Bryan Adams take the reigns. Things took off in the green room, John splayed out on the sofa and the fuck off riding in his eyes. His guest star wasn’t happy, the host wasn’t happy. The managers and producers weren’t happy. - _What show was this?_ -

The row grew and grew, and yet the only thing John could remember were four simple words as they ran hot off of the Canadian cunt’s lips:

“You need _help_ , John.”

The incident on _Saturday Super Store_ didn’t end well for anyone. After endless blows with Simon, blow, a stern brow raised from her mother, the disappointment in Nick’s eyes: John agreed.

Their photos from Drum could wait. Duran’s fame was waning enough as it was and John, another month and a series of botched interviews and drunken public appearances behind him, had to wait. Believing in shame, not so much _love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the real interview in which John really did insult the entirety of Birmingham and lose his cool with Bryan Adams backstage. He did party with Queen the night before. 
> 
> There have been numerous people, not just other celebrities, who both encouraged and berated John for his using and John recalled this in his book about Adams in good faith, if I remember correctly. This 1986 _Saturday Super Store _segment stands out. You know the one.__


	29. You’ve Gone Too Far This Time, And I’m Dancing On The Valentine

They forced themselves to get over it quickly, stern words from Nick about being the _constant third wheel_ and another _get your shit together, John_ fight ensued. When Nick was in the studio, no matter how late it may have been, they acted civil. They had to get a wriggle on. _Notorious_ changes were coming.

Diving headfirst into June with deadlines beginning to freak him out, John slumped into the sofa, tuna sandwich in hand and baby in the other. He piped up, voice grating, thoroughly pissed.

“So, this asshole called me up last night, right.”

Pulling his nose out of his lyric book, John’s self titled _Victor Hugo Setlist_ one beside him, Simon cocked a blonde brow and pouted. The light around him, those frosted tips that were ever so 80s Naval Aviator/Army/Marine Hoe – _shit yeah it’s out now, I should really go and watch it for Terri’s sake. Thank her for the track_ \- were catching the light, backlit into resembling a halo. Not that John could see much Holiness in him, at that point.

“No I was _not_ jackin’ it to his voice, you sod.” John confirmed, not really knowing why, more into his sandwich than into the real world.

Barbarella’s eyes were on his food, on his hair, teeny fingers prying themselves to Leonard The Lion as she bobbed in his lap.

“What did you tell him, Nigel?”

“Told ‘im to piss off, spittin’ shit about us needing a helping hand… _oh woah_.” He murmured out of habit. “We _have_ a lead rhythm guitarist, Bowie and Roxy infused. Always have, always will… why’re ya starin’ at me all condescending like Barbie?”

Barbarella pouted. John’s brows furrowed, he had never seen that pout before and yet it looked oddly familiar; resembling something much more significant. He swung his gaze to Simon and – _oh right, she looks like him at times too_ – he saw it. Simon was still pouting, considering something.

Coughing, the singer began, “oh, _do_ we now?”

John’s gaze widened. “What d’ya mean? You’ve spent two weeks on his tail, all those phone calls and arrangements. He told me _yes_ over some crack in LA… Nick, what am I missing ‘ere?”

Nick took a bite of his own tuna sandwich, not on that _healthy_ bread mind you, contemplating.

“Tell me we have a lead rhythm guitarist, Nick.” His voice was trembling, as was his baby.

Nick didn’t say anything.

“ _Nick_.”

“No, no we do not.” Simon answered for him, voice stern, slamming his lyric book shut. “You know that, John.”

“I, _what_?! No I… Holy shit!”

“We have a _lawsuit_ , not a guitarist, Nigel.”

“Fuck me in the ass, _what_?! Since when?! How long have I been out?!”

Both Simon and Nick stared him down.

“On second thought,” John giggled nervously, “don’t answer that.”

“Call him back.”

“Already on it, Simon.”

John sprinted to the phone, dropping Barbarella into Simon’s lap in the process. Tuna sandwich in hand, the other hovering above the dial; he slammed his eyes shut and tried to rattle off the number. He got there, eventually.

“Oh pick up, pick up, you piece of shit, motherfu— ‘Ello is that… yes, it’s John Taylor of _Duran Duran_ speaking.”

  
***  
  


Another two weeks and shit had blown up incredibly fast and for once, taking a bow as he deserved it, John wasn’t exactly 110% to blame. He was there, he was recording but it wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same. John tried to get close, John let himself be pushed away. The bassist’s mind was reeling, forcing itself back step by step; determined to decipher the precise moment it all went so horribly wrong. For months now he had blamed the tour, for months now, like with the _other_ guy, John blamed himself.

Four songs, like a going away present. Four songs he would do, not that John really payed much attention as to which track was which. He knew _Notorious_ was a definite, it was the first one near completion anyways. He’d be damned if he could work out the rest.

Maybe thirty five years from now, he’d be able to list the other three. Maybe not.

He had his reasons and they, what was left of the ‘they,’ had theirs. It really was three against one but goddamnit did one really have his odds once the lawyers started to get involved, dishing out every grievance and every right to be sold. Contract obligations, breaking free from the label, how the band name belonged to _him_ too… They were in this together, he, Nick and Simon, they had their team; crumbling but they had some form of team to get through this.

It would become a long legal battle to add atop of all his other, long and dreary battles condemned to self isolation and crying himself to sleep over. Whether Simon was there or not.

Things had gotten so tense between them, Simon and John, relationship on the verge of teetering over that crucial ladder, that Nick was forced to intervene yet again. They were snapping regularly, John showing up with dark circles around his eyes and unwashed hair; a half put together baby who was aching for her daddy to come and scoop her up, change her, take her away. He and Simon argued on the regular, their little rule of keeping Nick and Julie Anne out of it had seemingly fizzled into thin air.

“That’s it, _enough!”_ The keyboardist barked. “Dear, would you please give us a minute. Take my niece.”

Helping her to her feet, Julie Anne engulfed a deep breath as together they waddled over. She was ever so close now, not long until she and Nick would be welcoming another Duran baby into the incredibly fucked up, still hanging by multiple creative threads, world.

John fought to keep quiet as Barbarella was somewhat wrestled from his hands and banished with Auntie Jules. John’s gaze pinned itself to the door, then the blinds, watching as the two silhouettes blurred into nothing then leaving the studio far behind.

“Alright, that’s it. What is it with you two? Every day it’s something new, something so damn _stupid_ that you’re driving the rest of us up the wall.”

John straightened up, knowing once Nick got himself going both he and Simon would be saying _his_ prayers.

They ploughed on for the better part of an hour. Voices were raised and voices were hushed. For once, John was right on the beat, fighting back his corner. Yelling aimlessly at the both of them, pointing fingers and letting fingers be pointed at him. Only when Nick’s frustrated sigh, frustrated drop into the sofa cushions with a hand on his head did he begin to snap out of it.

“Okay, I’m just going to come out and say it.” Nick began, tense. Both Simon and John held their shaky breaths, catching the other with a worried eye. “When was the last time the two of you _slept_ together?”

John’s gaze widened comically, he titled his head and silently wished for the ground to swallow him. To hell with it, let him go down in the flames.

“ _Properly_ slept together.”

“Your point being?” Simon stated, keeping his eyes firmly away from John and yet John still felt the scrutiny.

“All the tension, the unbelievable behaviour… Charlie, the two of you have a shit tonne to sort out but I’d like an answer. I think I deserve—”

“— Oh fuck right off, Master Bates.” John whined, “like you need to fuckin’ know jack shit about mine and Charlie’s…” his voice fizzled out, getting quieter as John mulled it over. “Ahem, _sex_ life.”

“Nigel.”

John straightened up, gnawing at his bottom lip.

“If you love him, you’ll tell me and let me help you. You’ll tell me what’s wrong, why _you_ of all damn people _can’t_ …” Nick let it linger, John gulped audibly at the implication, “and then what we can do to _help_ you.”

John was thoroughly boiling under the collar now, caught between lashing out and slamming his best friend’s head into the wall or just dropping to his knees before Simon in defeat.

“John. Do you even remem—”

“— Course I friggin’ _remember_ , Charlie!” He spat, bottom lip trembling.

Looks like it was option B, he couldn’t hold back much more of the damn rain. If his fears and inhibitions, endless rounds of judgement from those he loved most suddenly meant _rain_.

Or was that what Charlie had tried to teach him all along?

**_Outside the thoughts come flooding back now._ **

Coughing, wiping at his face, John murmured.

“Repeat that, Nigel.”

**_I just tried to forget you._ **

John coughed again, shaky hand carding through his greasy blonde streaks.

**_So easy to disturb._ **

“I said,” he glanced at Simon for the first time this second wave of fight.

**_With a thought._ **

He couldn’t read the look in his eyes, he didn’t want too.

**_With a whisper._ **

“Nigel.”

**_Look out!_ **

John staggered his gait, tears pricking at his eyes and beginning that lonesome trail down his heated cheeks.

**_Look out!_ **

“ _Arena_ alright! November 1984.”

**_Out, out, OUT!_ **

Nick’s jaw hit the floor with an audible thud.

**_Look out!_ **

John heard that thud, rivalled it with his own knees crashing to the floor. He was sobbing now, clutching at Nick’s legs as he crawled before him.

“You _happy_ now?” John screeched, pointing, full of shame and self loathing. “November 1984, right after we fuckin’ _made_ her!”

“John—”

“— Just _shut up_ Simon!” He belted, flinging around to catch his face.

John whirled himself around. Flung himself back to the floor. He couldn’t bear either man’s scrutiny right now.

They broke the dam, they deal with the flow.

“What’s… what’s _wrong_ with me? Why can’t I… Nick, why can’t I… oh for fucks sake!” John whined, head in his hands. “You all tried to _warn_ me, over and over.”

He was sniffling, words a jumble, “you said that one day. One fuckin’ day I would just go out and _do_ it. One day I would go out there, fuck about and fall in love. Not with his cock, with the _man_. This ain’t even about the Omega shit, I had to get over all that bollocks when Nigel died. And look at me now, huh? I can’t even get it up for the man I _love_ , right, I don’t even want him near me like that.”

He was fuming, pink in the cheeks.

“Okay Nick, Simon, do you _hear_ me now? I can’t do it. I won’t, I… I’m _petrified_ alright. I’ve _ruined_ enough!”

He paused for a shaky gasp.

“I realised I never need to use anyone. One day I would go and fuck it all up. I’d fuck and fall _in love_ , just like you bastards _told_ me! You happy now? I don’t know anythin’ else?!”

The silence was deadly. Only John’s sniffles and shaky breath filled the small studio space. He was hunched into a ball, the damn tears wouldn’t stop and nobody dared to touch him.

“Well,” he groaned, “wont one of ya bloody say _something_?! You wanted me to spill it so I did!”

John was panting heavily, he couldn’t bring his gaze up from off of his knees. Why the ground hadn’t opened up to swallow him whole was beyond him. He cursed inwardly at how childish the thought was.

Once again he was running. What else was new?

“John, John,” there was a hand on his shoulder, “John baby, we can talk about it. We can… can _try_.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ ‘John _baby’_ me. Get off!”

Simon retreated. His hand had been frozen on his shoulder, John couldn’t lean into it no matter how much he may have wanted too. Why did he even still want too?

“Look at me, huh? It’s my birthday at the end of the week and once again, I’ll be that poor sod sleepin’ through it _alone_. Don’t bother calling.”

“I was with you last year!”

“You what, Charlie?” The keyboardist was astonished.

“Oh yeah, yeah Nick he was. We got so damn close to holy matrimony… And, check me, the inconsiderate _impotent_ ass just fell right asleep before he fucked me! And you wanna know why? Huh, why?”

“No Nigel but I’m sure you’re going to tell—”  
  


“—Cuz I’d much rather have all the big C than _his_ big c, you read?” He sputtered his way through, a new wave of tears breaking free.

“But you managed to sleep with plenty whilst carrying, I’m sure.”

John shivered bodily at the blow.   
  


“Don’t even fuckin’ go there now, Simon.”

“Your body your rules, huh?”

“That’s not.. not fair.”

“But he’s right though,” Nick pointed to Simon, “isn’t he Nigel? Does Paris ring a bell.”

It wasn’t a question.

John was done fighting, tears bleeding out every last fluid he had within him. He couldn’t take anymore so off he went. And before long he was running. Again. Stumbling over his own feet, passing the confused hoard of session musicians on his way out; lashing out as one of the backing singers asked what was wrong. He buried his face in his leopard print sleeve, he didn’t even think about where his baby was.

“Mr Taylor wait!”

He whirled around. He had heard that voice but couldn’t piece it together.

“John.” He growled in response.

“John, John what happened?”

John’s bleary gaze landed on the figure. So new, an untouched variable.

_Is that?_

Before he could stop himself, face still plastered in salty tears, “fancy a drink with an old, washed up bassist?”

_He sure as hell looks like him._

“You what?” The figure looked puzzled – _huh, a Yank. It’s not him at all_ \- yet John’s eyes were heading down to that slither of bared golden chest. “‘Kay, as long as ya tell me what’s wrong.”

John nodded, still fuming.

“You’re what, twenty uh—”

“ _Six_. On Friday. Feelin’ like a six year old too.”

“Not old and washed up at by a mile, mate.”

Lips in a fine line, the bassist lurched a hand out, wrapping it around the new guy’s. He felt their callouses fall in line, brushing up against each other in just the right places.

**_Voices in your body’s coming through on the radio._ **

****

John didn’t know where he was going but at the same time, he knew exactly fucking _where._


	30. Give Me Anything Even Sympathy, There’s A Chance You Could Be Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we hit thirty! Good Lord.

The two of them traipsed into the bar. If John knew anything about London, which frankly he still didn’t, was where the hot spots were for what he wanted and for when he wanted it. Oh and, the shopping districts.

Tonight however, he would let unfold. Let the universe decide what he would and wouldn’t do.

Basked in the sleazy low light, they took a booth in the back so they were further away from the action and could actually hear each other speak. Plus John really didn’t fancy getting recognised tonight, face and hair still a mess, still in rumpled clothes that were not fit for a wild night out with the lads.

Or lad, as he was reminded. _And then there were two…_

John told him everything, literally. Once he started, once he hit a second _Budweiser_ , he couldn’t stop. For some strange reason, he didn’t think to try and pin point it, his gut was telling him that he could really trust this guy. That this guy would be hanging about, that he would want to listen. And maybe; just maybe, he really could help John out.

If not he would sell John’s life to the press and John’s lawyers would crush him. _C’est la vie._

The extended Dance Mix of _The Reflex_ came on: better that than _Wild Boys,_ he supposed. Even John couldn’t say no to that face, hauling him up to the dance floor as the strobe lights beat their way around them. What could he say, he was an awful dancer but thankfully the other guy actually had rhythm and made them look good. There were reasons why Durans didn’t dance in videos, until now…

**_Voices in your body’s coming through on the radio._ **

“And he really thinks you can both just drop right down on the tile and _go_ for it? Isn’t that what you want?”

John stumbled over that one.

“A distraction, anythin’?”

“From what, man?”

“Yourself.”

“Huh?”

“I said,” he yelled, drawing John in closer, “ _yourself!”_

John raised his gaze, eyes boring into the firm brown before him.

“Jeez, you’re good.”

“Thanks, man.”

The song began to fizzle out, his harsh bass notes dulling to a small thud that the floor shook with.

“Let’s head back to the table.”

“Okay,” John followed his lead. “Maybe I should request _Destination Unknown_ …”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Heh, watch me.”

**_The Union Of The Snake, is on the climb._ **

The conversation kept on rolling, John having decided that he had shared enough of his personal turmoil and embarrassment for one night.

“So, tell me about yourself. Your band. _Zappa_ days, too!”

There was a pause, John gulped audibly.

“Please, I wanna know.”

“Alright, shit where to begin?”

**_It’s gonna race. Gonna break._ **

The man was incredible. John had barely heard him play and yet his track record spoke volumes to him. John _knew_ him, he just did. He knew him and his sound. The man was full of stories, laughing and joking his way throughout each year. Touring here, recording there, it really did sound like heaven. A heaven that, John decided, he really would want this man by his side for.

Could he really move on that fast?

**_Gonna move up to the borderline._ **

What did the man want from John?

“You know I don’t really think I ever, uh, _properly_ introduced myself to ya.” John extended a hand, slightly off centre but close enough. “I’m Ni- _John_.”

There was a chuckle, “yeah Ni- _John_ , I know who ya are. Been a fan for a while now.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, you’re the hottest mother fucker of them all. How could I bat an eye?”

John pulled a stupid face.

“And you really are a tit in real life, huh?”

John pulled another stupid face.

“Exactly. Anyway, guitar was always real mediocre but ya’ll never gave the guy a freakin’ chance there… the drums saved Duran for me.” They took John’s hand. “And that bass… freakin’ sweet. Better in _Power Station_ , both of ya, no questions asked.

John blushed, savouring the precious moment of contact. He dropped his gaze down to their hands, grip firm, and felt himself shiver. Felt himself burn up, felt the sparks ignite from a single touch.

“Didn’t think you guys actually could play. Then again, don’t think anyone really does.”

John coughed, dropping his hand. “And you…”

“ _Warren_ , we have spoken a few times before Johnny.”

“Oh, uh yeah,” he blushed darker, taking another swig to compensate. “I’m sorry for how I, for how _we_ … you know, erm..”

“Treated me the first time, on the phone? To jump up my own eager ass and die?”

“Yeah… sorry about that.”

“It’s alright, man. I get it. You’re all still reelin’ after five became three. It must’ve been hard, losing the only two musicians in the group,” (Hey! – John interjected) “just like _that_.” Although his words were grating, painful to hear, there was a tinge of something more upbeat in Warren’s twang. “The _Crucial_ _Three_ , am I right?”

John forced a smile at that.

He refocused his heavy gaze, starting with the light sweat that coated Warren’s chest, his open shirt revealing such defined pecs. He ran his gaze up, watching his Adam’s apple bob, watching him lick his smooth lips. Warren took a gulp, lifting the bottle high to expose his neck; John’s eyes were surely teasing him now.

He envisioned running his tongue up that neck.

He envisioned sucking on his ear, licking that defined jaw…

John choked on his peanuts.

Warren chuckled, mocking, his tones were low and throaty. Heaven, surely that was what heaven sounded like.

The night trailed on, the two were much more comfortable in each others company now. John laughed when Warren joked, finding himself throwing his head back and slamming his knee. The tell tale sign that he was thoroughly elated. They were sharing backstage stories, gossip, John even felt confident enough to sign him an autograph: cheeky grin plastered to his face.

He was a little miffed that Warren could down his shot faster and more elegantly, he didn’t even flinch.

Although quickly, a more somber expression coated that handsome guise. “John,” Warren pried John’s bottle from his grip and placed it aside. “Look at me, mate, I have sommet to tell ya. It’s important.”

John shifted uncomfortably, training his gaze to land anywhere but those moistened lips.

“John, there was a reason I called. I wasn’t tryna be hasty or anything. I knew it was over.”

“Over?” John’s mind flashed back to the guitarist in the studio. “What’s that mean?”

“He tried to break us up too. Came hunting down a deal in LA, Dale didn’t need any of that shit. Her divorce is takin’ enough outta her right now. Out of her and Terry.”

John clung to every word, raking it in and over analysing like mad.

“You miss them?”

“Hell yeah but six years has been a hell of a good run. We’ve gone well I’d say.”

“Yeah, you have.” John nodded, smiling. “So, lemme get this straight.” _I’m not, you’re clearly not_ , _performing in all that garb,_ “he came searching for a new band. Stumbled into you guys in LA and tried to split you all apart?”

Warren nodded once.

“Weasley lil _Whitley Bay fucker_.” John spat. Then, “wait, why are ya tellin’ me all of this?”

Warren shrugged. “Just thought you should know, is all. You guys are puttin’ yourselves through enough bullshit as it is, you’ve got enough goin’ on with that little baby of yours… ya don’t need the stress, John, don’t even think ‘bout him. He’ll be outta your mullet soon enough.”

John snorted, he would be out of _both_ his and Warren’s crazily unkept yet ever so kept mullets soon enough.

“ _Bastard_.”

“Drink to that, buddy.” And John just got friend zoned, goddamnit. Still, he clutched his beer and raised it; the little clink causing him to giggle before they both downed what they had left. “I’m real sorry he’s doing all this to ya, though.”

“You know what,” with a heavy heart, “so am I. I keep thinkin’ that I… like, I _get_ it but then again I don’t. Why has he gotta go and make such a meal of it all? Why now? Isn’t there more to this than _money_?”

**_When it comes to making money._ **

“That’s a great question, man.”

**_Say yes please, thank you._ **

“He’ll sue.”

“That he will, John.”

“We’ll need a new guitarist.”

“That you do, John.”

“We’ll need someone we can trust. Someone who really vibes with the band, knows that even though there’s only three of us; we’ve still got it.”

“Again, that you do John.”

Lips pricking up into a big, beaming smile, “I think I _know_ who.”

A sly raise of dark eyebrows, lost within the fringe, “do you now?”

Mind not as cloudy with drink as he would’ve expected, the rush of the confession and the rage somehow dimmed itself to a sudden bolt of emotion. John laid a hand out, desperate for Warren to take it.

“ _Fuck yeah_ I do.”

Warren took it.

“You wanna get outta here,” John paused, momentarily doing the logistics and licking his lips in that slow and overly meticulous way he often did, “finish this at… at, shit, uh…”

“Your place.” Thank fuck Warren just said it like it was.

“Y-yeah, _my_ place. Goddamn does that feel good to say. Been a while.”

Warren worried his bottom lip, John was casually being choked by the air as he awaited an answer. He decided to choke on some more peanuts instead.

“Don’t you have your baby?”

John’s heart dropped into his stomach. The alcohol swirled it around a little and… fuck it.

“She’s at her daddy’s tonight.” He lied through his teeth. “It’s all _me_.”

A simple waggle of eyebrows and out the booth they slid. Side by side, John was awfully aware of Warren’s heat at his back; Warren’s deft hand on his shoulder pad as they fought their way back into the outside world.

Thrusting themselves into the darkness, being painted in the rich silver glow of the moon; John pivoted around to check that he wasn’t alone. Gaze landing upon Warren’s smaller but way muscular silhouette; he engulfed a shaky breath and plastered his biggest and most joyful grin to his face.

Warren hailed them a taxi and John rattled off his address.

“Your baby, what’s her name?”

“Barbarella.”

“Find Durand Durand.”

John couldn’t help but beam. “Yup! Find Durand Durand!”

“She’s Simon’s right?”

John lost his beam.

He threw his gaze up, fumbling over what to say. Instead, he laced their fingers together.

“Uh, Johnny?”

He knew exactly what to say.

“No, no she’s not, don’t worry ‘bout that now.”


	31. Please Tread Gently On The Ground, When All Around You Earth Turns To Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is incredibly overdue for this series. It’s about time we learnt a little about the A/B/O side to this fic and John’s story. ❤️

“Is it hard, being who… you are?”

John threw his head up, catching Warren in his sights. The guitarist was sat on the chair to his left, John braced on the sofa; sinking into the plush leather with a sigh.

“As in,” he gulped, running a hand through his rumpled blonde strands and pulling one free, “goddamnit, sorry.”

Warren just smiled, black teased fringe dangling before his eyes.

“My, you know, _status_?” The bassist’s tongue fumbled over the word.

“Yeah. If you don’t mind me askin’, man.”

John pouted, slumping further back into the sofa, now clutching a sparkly cushion to his chest and feeling more than insecure.

“Oh no, c’mon now it’s… it’s _fine_.” He rattled off, rocking slightly.

“You sure?”

John nodded, “go easy on me,” he tried to giggle; not getting very far.

“Is it hard being the most handsome mother fucker on the planet, as a freakin’ Omega?”

John thought long and hard. Those questions weren’t exactly alien but at the same time, no one had dared to ask John. Nigel, yeah okay, he would stumble over his answers; hide his insecurity behind his overgrown fringe and curse for when those thick frames gave the vulnerability in his irises away. Nigel had poor ways with dealing but he gave it a shot and John, well, John was _John_.

“Yeah, I s’pose.” He worried his bottom lip. “What d’ya want to know?”

John’s gaze locked into Warren’s. He was sure that those dark eyes were gleaming from behind the mullet; that there was a smile creeping onto those lips.

In the early days he would get mauled. John chose to blame the crazy fans, the band’s world wide appeal, how everyone wanted a slither of him. How they wanted to rip him apart, using his own weaknesses against him so he would have to ‘man up’ and prove them wrong between the shots. Between the sheets.

Men in the business used him alike. He couldn’t recall what jobs he had and hadn’t slept for; the perks he had been promised.

How many times he near wound up a knocked up sod on the street, chucking up last night’s vodka, coke and come.

“How did you deal, all I’ve heard are horror stories about you.. your kind? Can I say that? What you have to go through.”

Thoughts flashed to Simon. He tried to shake them and yet there he was, just his name flashing in blinding baby blue neon lights right across the forefront of his mind.

John barked out a laugh, “ _barely!_ The mood swings are mad, the heats unbearable but…” he tried to keep vague, “god, this is gonna sound awful but at the start; there was always somebody to… _help_ me.”

“Help?”

John let out a shaky sigh. “Y-yeah. Meaning that, oh god, he would… you know with me.. a lot.”

“Who?”

John felt so ashamed. “Anyone the managers could lay their hands on. Anyone _willing_ to, you know, fuck me through it.”

John gave Warren a moment, to let it sink in.

“I felt awful, like they had to hire me guys at first. Before I felt comfortable going out to get ‘em on my own. There were rules, people watching and… I was right there, slickin’ it up. It was _terrifying_.”

John’s head was in his hands, fully aware of the familiar pricking of his shoulders and pain behind his eyes; determined to keep the salt at bay.

“I started taking suppressants as soon as I could afford ‘em. Early ’82, recording _Rio_.”

“Suppressants? Pills for the heats, right?”

“Yeah tablets, you’re in the UK now. I knew I couldn’t deal with those rotten heats, cravings, running everytime an Alpha’s lips got close… then look at me: gettin’ famous, all those birds on my tail and… fuck, life on the road would be _torture_.”

No Duran had spoken to him about it since _Planet Earth_ and that shoot hadn’t ended very well, heat cycle beginning and bringing everyone down with it.

“Nobody got the pills for you when you first got signed?”

“ _Tablets_. And No. _EMI_ wanted my body, they couldn’t handle what came with it. Don’t even think they had an Omega with such money making _potential_ , thought I hid it so damn well from ‘em but well, that couldn’t last forever.”

Warren nodded, John silently thanked him for trying to understand. He knew it wasn’t easy.

“You wouldn’t believe how many times Nick and I got turned away at first, demo tape an’ all. Just cuz of little ole _me_ and that one damn word: _Omega_.”

None of this would ever be easy but if they signed Warren aboard, he deserved to know.

  
“Was lucky enough to have gotten into the Polytechnic in the first place, never mind us playin’ there.”

“The hierarchy… they turned you away?”

“Birmingham Polytechnic no, not that they seemed to enjoy our music much,” John scoffed at the mental image of having anything and everything from the food tech side of the school thrown his way, “record company big shots, yeah.”

John really wasn’t sure why he found it so easy to open up to him. Why he could fall in line, wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“How did that make ya feel?”

“Worse than insecure. Pathetic, hopeless.”

“Then, _EMI_?”

“Knowing that it’s me and only _me_ , out of the five of us, made it worse. It had just been me and Nick for years, he’s a Beta so he would look after me best he could but, you know, when the so-called ‘time of the month’ came… he ran and so did I. Uh, _he_ ran.” John inhaled a sharp breath, releasing it with a single sound: “ _Nigel_.”

“Who?”

John flushed, eyes firmly on his hands as he repeated. “Nigel.”

“Who’s Nigel? Thought ya parrot’s name was Nigel?”

John sulked, biting into his bottom lip. “You know what? Warren I… I don’t really know anymore.”

Casting a glance to his side, he caught the confusion writ across the guitarist’s handsome face.

“‘Tis me, or was. I thought I was someone else, someone good.”

There was a small chuckle. Then, a voice so perfect that John jumped out of his skin, jaw hitting the floor and eyes bugging wide.

“ _Just a Perfect Day. I’m glad I spent it with you._ ” A pause, “I love that song.”

Clearing his throat, John and his pitiful vocal joined in.

“ _Oh it’s such a Perfect Day. You just keep me hangin’ on_.”

“You…” John just gaped at him, “I didn’t realise that, uh, y-you could… just harmonise like that with me: _wow_.”

Warren beamed with pride, soft smile caressing his beautiful lips. “Yeah John, I _can_.” He teased. “Thought you were a fan of us?”

“Oh y-yeah I uh, I know—”

“— You lied to me now, didn’t ya?”

“N-no I.. no, it’s just that you… oh shit how do I?”

At that, John sighed as he felt the weight of the sofa shift. He turned around, resting mere inches from Warren smile.

“Take your time, what are ya trying to say, John?”

Licking his bottom lip, his voice dropped to a mere whisper: ever so soft. “I didn’t realise how beautiful _you_ sound. Just you. Without Dale, without the... the synths and editing. Yeah you sound… _yeah_.”  
  


Warren winked and John felt his heart skip a beat. He cursed himself for the cliché.

John rattled on some more, staring down at Warren’s hands placed ever so teasingly in his lap. Above the leather, which John’s gaze was trailing over. Every lump, rumple, shine in the fabric.

“John, what happened once you were on the drugs?”

“Huh, what drugs?”

Warren made a face.

“I.. I what?”

  
**_Blow._ **

“The _suppressants_ , Johnny. They are drugs.”

John had been on plenty of drugs already, even beforehand back in his baby days at the _Rum Runner_.

  
_**Rock.** _

“Oh.” He let out the breath he hadn’t known to be holding. “Right yeah, uh, those.”

“We’ll talk about the _other_ drugs later, mind you.”

  
**_Blow._ **

John giggled nervously, now craving a precious white line of heaven.

Maybe if Warren did one too, then he wouldn’t feel so bad.

“It took a long time to adjust, like any new tablets,” he let it linger, “would. We were traveling a fuck load in ’82. The holiday, _escape_ in the Caribbean, then became a work escape. You know we filmed a few vids abroad—”

“— Threw your old guitarist overboard yes. You ain’t gonna do that to me now, are you?”

John considered.

“Bitch you better not!”

“I won’t, I mean it! No more yachts! Drum is bad enough!” He answered before Warren could ask. “Duran yacht, or dingy? I don’t really know. Our old managers bought it with, shit with…”

“Simon.”

“Yeah,” John felt the tears pricking at his eyes again, “Si- _Simon_.”

John let rip. A single; hot tear pelted his flushed cheeks, he swiped it away.

“They.. shit,” he caught another stray tear, “the side effects man, I couldn’t ... it was absolutely awful. I went after everythin’ that moved, anybody who showed me some interest and… then the days come that I could just _wink in a girls direction and have company till morning_.”

“And, when did it all start with Simon?”

John had to tread carefully. The more he cried, the better chance of him being swept out to sea; riding his own measly tears before drowning in them.

John’s voice was small and steady. He carved out their timeline, through his sniffling, catching himself and throwing himself off course. He kept it up, trying desperately to recall all the rights and the wrongs, when it really went right and when it really went wrong.

“’82. We, no we, you know we always had something. He first came to audition, I… fuck I, God. He told me, back in 1980, to take off my gawky glasses and to cut my hair. To start with the contacts. To _believe_ in myself.”

John shifted, biting into his bottom lip.

“Warren I, I just _knew_ okay? I still dunno how but I knew from day one: _he’s_ the one. He’s mine. He’s the Alpha for me and if I ain’t careful, he’ll break my heart and my body. And look what _I_ did to _him_?”

The tears rolled, he couldn’t keep track of them. John didn’t bother trying.

“He gave me everythin’... everythin’, Warren, I never knew I could have! The fame, the records, the hope, the life. Life in the fast line, _we ride the outside lane_ and fuck.”

John stalled, looking at his hands and biting into his bottom lip. It was quivering, he knew that he wouldn’t be holding back much more rain.

“You know our song, uh, _Lonely In Your Nightmare?_ From _Rio?_ ”

Warren considered. He shrugged.

John upped, swaying slightly as he clambered over to the Hi-Fi set, scouring for the track.

“Here.”

**_Because you’re Lonely In Your Nightmare, let me in._ **

**_Because there’s heat beneath your winter, let me in._ **

“The first time we, shit we, we—”

“—Made _love?_ ”

He nodded, flush with embarrassment.

“Was to that song. Simon was so gentle, loving and he.. Christ, he was the first Alpha I had, perhaps the _only_ one who ever.. really, really _cared_. He worshipped me with his touches and his voice. Incredible. He sang to me the whole way through it, guiding me along, letting me live his melody and I: it was like a ‘bang’ in the films. My Hero, my _Indiana Jones_. That was it. He’s mine, I’m here to stay.”

It took John a moment to register that he was being pulled into a hug, wrapping his long arms tightly around the guitarist’s petite yet muscular frame.

  
“The _Bond_ to my Bond whore.” It was muffled, right into Warren’s neck.

_The name’s Bon._

“John? John, why did you lie to me earlier?”

_Simon Le Bon._

John didn’t know when he had started shaking.

“About, Warren uh, what about?”

His bottom lip was trembling.

“John, why did you lie to me about Simon? Tell me that Barbarella wasn’t his?

“I did no such thing!” He spat, turning away.

“You did. Why did you lie about him being the father of your baby?” Warren’s voice flowed, full of concern and showing no signs of backing down. “John, _Is There Something I Should Know?_ ” He sang it, goddamn him.

John, pink in the face, wheezing over his little words, let himself be reeled again into those open arms; mullets brushing, tender hands running down his back as he came undone atop of the leather Warren wore with pride. John soaked it, stained it and yet, somehow, the guitarist kept him close: let him cry his pathetic little outburst through.

“I g-guess,” it was muffled, “I didn’t.. d-didn’t wanna be, fuck sake,” John pulled away, rubbing at his face. “I guess, I just didn’t want to be… _alone_ tonight.” He admitted, defeated.

**_Because you’re Lonely In Your Nightmare, let me in._ **

**_And it’s barren in your garden, let me in._ **

****

John’s world came crashing down, somehow all having stemmed from his revelation. His hand shot into his shirt pocket, trembling as he grasped the familiar weight. He tried to steady himself, whipping it out and opening it with his chattering teeth. He didn’t dare to look Warren in the eye, he didn’t care.

He sank to his knees, dropping its sacred contents out to the coffee table. A straw was waiting for him, beckoning him, mocking him. He eyed it, deliciously cut, quivering fingers grasping it and bringing it to him.

He flung his gaze around, catching the look of the guitarist. John didn’t care to decipher it.

****

**_Because there’s heat beneath your winter, let me in._ **

“Spare me from your torture John.” His voice was suddenly gruff, grating. “You do that and I’m outta here.”

John inhaled once. Twice. Three times and he was surging, raging straight into next week. His blood boiled, new life thrumming through his veins; in dire need of that precious top up.

“Goodnight John.”

“W-wait!” He called, leaping to his feet.

His hand shot down to Warren’s own, clutching tight and in his own flimsy grip.

“Please.. please don’t go,” he stated, wrapping his other hand around Warren’s cheek, “please I, I’ll get on my knees.”

He could’ve sworn Warren waggled his brows, gaze dark and John licked his lips.

“I.. please, just don’t… don’t _leave_ me.” John’s voice was a mere whisper, full of desperation. Pity and desperation.

John wrapped his huge body around Warren’s smaller, more toned one. His hands looped around his cut hips, bringing their bodies flush together and John instantly buried his head in Warren’s neck.

Jittering, “h- _help_ me, please. I…” he jumped, taking Warren with him, “I need it, help.”

“And who would’ve thought it.”

John was surprised that he had even spoken, crying as he reluctantly pulled his face away to catch the fire in those eyes.

“The hottest, most desired mother fucker on the _planet_ , winner of all them stupid awards,” John was trembling throughout those words, “could have _anyone_ and _everyone_ at the snap of his fingers. Beck and call. All the drink, women and drugs in the world. A _bassist_ for fuck’s sake.”

John felt him pull away.

“And yet, the man is _petrified_ of sleepin’ alone. How ironic.”

Renée had said the exact same words to him, it didn’t matter how much crack he had thrumming in his veins: he would never be forgetting that, or this.

“I’m not a- ahem- alone!” John yelled, whirling round to face him. “I have my... shit, my baby and she’s… she’s _everything_ to me, and I—”

“—Do you?” Warren trampled on him, “and where is she now?”

The realisation hit him, like being struck down by his own undriven _Mercedes_ in the middle of the street.

“I, I… I don’t know.” He admitted, tears streaming.

John felt him brush past, sending his body crashing to the sofa.

“You’ve got the man you love fallin’ at your feet and you wallow in crack to get through it. Drugs aren’t everythin’. Nor is the drink.”

“Viagra.” John uttered in defiance.

“Cocaine is viagra to you?”

John couldn’t argue.

“Lemme guess, ain’t even got a _pair mark_ have ya?”

Grumbling, “a pair mark would bind me to Simon for the rest of my life. Duran have another six years maybe? We’ll be dead in the nineties.”

There was a scoff.

“You want help?”

John couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Think a night with me is gonna reset that cock of yours? Make you want Simon more?”

John’s fingernails bit into the cushion.

“ _Some people call it a one night stand_ , huh John?”

He didn’t let John answer.

“It’s _paradise_ for you, a game, right?”

John tore through the cushion.

“I don’t think so. You’re not winning this one.”

John threw the cushion to the floor.

“I like you John, I can see now that you’ve really got a heart of gold. A head full of chopsticks and you don’t wanna be in public about how fucked up you are or whatever the lyrics are. I’m not gonna sit ‘ere and watch you suffer tonight, I’m headin’ back to my hotel. See you in the studio, whenever the bender’s over.”

“Hotel?”

Those heels clanked on his tile floor.

“Yeah, no point in me try’na get a place just waitin’ for you assholes to hire me on.”

“You could stay here; for free.” John yelped before he could help himself. “As long as you know how to change a nappy— diaper, whatever.”

Warren threw him a glance over his fringe covered shoulder, John could barely make out that expression.

“Please Warren, look man it’s,” he squinted, unable to read his watch this bleary eyed.

“Nearin’ 4am.”

“Yeah, that. Don’t think ‘bout hailin a taxi at this time, just _stay_. Guest bedroom’s across the hallway.” John ground out his words, heart beating too face and tears clogging his better vision. 

  
John crowded him, shoving himself up against the front door.

“John, don’t make me—”

“I’m sorry.”

John swallowed Warren’s words, with force. His tongue swirled maddeningly, he cocked a leg around the guitarist’s smaller frame, reeling him in and was grinding roughly against him. John’s lips kept nipping, struggling for breath, sharing saliva and sweat was pooling on his chest. He ran his trembling fingers up into Warren’s hair, tugging slightly, breaking the kiss with a deep breath. His lips descended across Warren’s cheek, lapped the underside of his cut throat jawline, before trailing lower; a line of hickeys dusting his tan skin.

“John, J-John, _stop_ it.”

Pulling away, alarm bells ringing in his head... John ignored each and every one.   
  


He had a hand on Warren’s belt, flinging it open, snaking it out of the loops and throwing it aside. John couldn’t hide his excitement, literally feeling Warren pulse in his grip.   
  


“You really... fuck, John!”

John was on his knees.

“You really want this, you sod.”

John’s hands were everywhere.

“You gonna remember this in the mornin’?”

“Of course,” he belted, “not like I’m goin’ anywhere.”

At that Warren shot a hand down, bringing John back up to face him.

“John—” the bassist’s lips were on his neck, “if we’re really gon’ do this, you’ve gotta promise me.”

John’s hasty hand on his own shirt stalled.

“My rules, my way. You do as I say—”

“Yes, yes!” John beamed as Warren looked puzzled over his readiness to sub...

“Then first thing in the studio, you’re talkin’ to Simon.”

“Simon.”

“It’s Simon you want, not me, right?”

John slammed their lips together, tongue thrusting itself in, determined to taste and memorise each tooth; each filling.

Gasping, Warren pulled away. “You really are a little _slut_ aren’tcha, Johnny?”

John was giggling as he nodded, wrapping his hand in Warren’s; brushing their callouses together. More than ready to take a finger in.

His heart was beating rapid, he could barely hear himself think. “I’ll do it, _anythin_ ’. Okay, make it rough, make it hurt just... _fuck!_ ”

John caught that special little glimmer in the guitarist’s eye. John watched, gaze wide, as Warren retrieved his belt. 

“Take your shirt off.”

John obeyed, any and all inhibitions about his weight was flung from his mind.

“No touching, now.” 

He bound John’s hands together, lapping the belt tight around his bony wrists. John was trembling from the excitement; thoroughly pink in the face.

  
**_Burning the ground, I break from the crowd._ **

“You gonna be a _good_ boy? Sort your shit out with Simon today?”

John hissed, “yes, _master_.”

  
_**I’m on the hunt, I’m after you.** _

“You gonna get me in the band after all this?

  
“Yes, _master_.”

_**Mouth is alive, juices like wine.** _

“Who do you love, John?”

He stammered out, “Si- _Simon_.”

_**And I’m Hungry Like The Wolf.** _

“And what does your heart say now?”

“ _You_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn’t paint Warren in a bad light either. I love him and he deserves all the love, as you’ll see!


	32. Wild Boys Never Lose It

Squirming, John shimmied in his grip as his sight was yanked from him, his head thrown back, leaning into the hand that blindfolded him; the hand that let his head crash back into the pillows.

John was bounded and bested, leather cuffs biting into his skin and he wriggled and writhed. He lay nude, the only sound came from his parted lips taking shaky breaths, desperate for friction. For touch, for a simple lick, or breath. He was standing proud, member coating itself in fluids.

He trembled listening to the orders. _No touching, don’t fight back._ He could moan all he wanted, he would be, he had been, barely able to take much more. He wanted nothing more than to come; for his juices to rain down on the two of them: for that moment of toe curling pleasure as his release ripped through his helpless body, he was quivering at the mere thought of how close he was.

The tongue was mad, ruthless, running in long and dizzying strokes across him. John tried to buck upwards, groaning as his hips were slammed back down atop of the bed; kept there by a strong arm. He whined and hissed, desperate for more. More. More.

He grunted as his legs were lifted, wrapping themselves around that gorgeous body that blanketed him. He let himself be filled, talented fingers sending his mind into a tizzy, right on the edge, body contorting and stomach in knots. John couldn’t hold on, couldn’t hold back his rain.

A couple more thrusts, knuckles deep, John’s orgasm tore him open, panting and moaning, he convulsed in that strong grip; painting his own skin, itching for a feel, a taste, letting it linger.

His legs were yanked up higher, he wrestled with his bonds. That precious line of liquids were lapped up, being rubbed back into the member which was already pulsing again. John groaned, a full bodily shiver taking over him, desperate to see. Desperate to break that barrier, to be even closer, to open his world up and to send them both surging with there own torturous little death.

There was a sniff. A line of powdered heaven. He did one too.

John claimed those lips as the blindfold was removed, hot and heavy, their tongues battled for dominance but John couldn’t fully drop his submissive act. He ground his hips upwards, begging for touch, begging for anything, wild pants dropping from his lips.

His legs were dropped down again. He couldn’t quite follow the body, twisting in his cuffs, he couldn’t quite see where he was. That didn’t matter. John could feel him, his aura, his radiance and that was plenty. A whole new high in and of itself, he was trembling at the mere thought of what was coming next.

His skin was littered in hickeys, little bruises to remind him that he’s more than happy now, he did what he did.

There were scratches, having carved their journey into his pasty skin, bitten lips and nibbled earlobes. John’s whole body was trembling in suspense, in pleasure: blurring the border between that and pain.

John was freed, they were wrestling atop of the bed, rolling and rolling. John was pinned, grinning, before kissing him again. Tasting himself of that tongue, John hissed as their members brushed; John sighed as their hips ground together: sending him into another frenzy.

Groaning and grunting, moaning himself hoarse, John slammed his head back into the pillows and was swiftly entered: legs around cut hips; clutching tirelessly at the rumpled sheets all around him. They were fast, weren’t quiet, nipping and sucking to the point of drawing more blood and staining John’s pasty skin with it. He clawed at the body, that refined ass as it drove into him harder and faster: desperate to refrain from touching himself and ruining their moment.

Hips slamming, together they bucked as a wild stallion on a runt; racing to reach their peak. He was huge, John’s body slamming down and all around a member so familiar and so alien all at once. Blurring the sacred line between pain and pleasure, whining as more hickeys dusted his skin; John was so close. Ever so close to losing it completely, whiting out and deafening himself to the blaring guitar solos all around him.

John then screamed as that special spot was hit; wriggling all around it and shoving his hips back. Desperate to draw it out, to see the white behind his eyes and have that ringing in his ears over take him. Elevate him, ruin him as he was destroyed from within. He came long and hard, painting his skin white, shoving a hand down to himself; lapping it up and using it.

His insides were driving them both mad, clutching tight to the member that still pulsed; still hammered. Clutching tight to the lips that bit him, that sucked at his ear, that tongue sweeping against the underside of his jaw.  
  


***  
  


Rolling over, he collided with another body, a little ‘oomph’ and John couldn’t hell but giggle. Their limbs were still entwined, sheets barely covering them. They reeked of sex, of _them_ , their lust and want. John couldn’t be happier. He felt reset, ready to take on the world again, ready to face the man of his dreams again and to love, to be happy, to find solace in the man he wanted.

He wanted that pair mark. He wanted him hand in hand, baby in his other hand.

John couldn’t thank Warren enough, watching him hunt down his clothes with bleary eyes from his king size bed. Their conversation over a nude breakfast was light, picking up from where they left off in the bar. Both were hungover but Warren had some tricks up his sleeve: a concoction; that made the dull ache seemingly disappear.

It was a strange sort of psychology. He’d be walking down that aisle someday.

John leant him some clothes, chuckling when they both struggled to find something that would fit. John threw his head back, laughing so hard, at Warren’s remark: perhaps he really _would_ fit Barbarella’s teeny leather jacket better than any of John’s satin ones. He had the hiccups, barely able to tame them, when Warren pointed to the bed and what lay beneath it.

“She’s almost one, she’s crawlin’ right?”

“Yeah? What’s your— oh my god!”

The bulk of John’s sex toys lay under his bed, in his lower drawers…

“You’re gonna want to move the whips at least, man.”

“That, holy fuck, I do!”

“She could _swallow,_ ” Warren waggled his eyebrows, “the lube. Take after her daddy—”

“— _Mummy_ , you know that!”

“Shit John, that ain’t a joke?”

“Fuck no!” Then, softer, “that was, last night, erm.. honestly Warren I,”

The images of the restraints. The paddle Warren had pulled out of nowhere…

“Don’t mention it. I had fun too.”

The belt piercing his skin, like a tawse…

“Never knew you had it in ya, JT!”

“Trust me. If it’s a kink, I got it.”

Warren’s eyes near bugged out of his head.

Then, John was nervous but, “this ain’t gonna change anythin’ between us right? You know I really emptied my guts and all to you last night, I trust you.. I really do. I dunno why, it’s only been a day but—”

John was silenced by the smooth brushing of sweet lips against his.

“I said don’t mention it, mate. We’re gonna get along just _fine_. Now,” they were walking shoulder to almost shoulder, “let’s get you your man back.”

Taking a shuddering breath, John nodded.

He knew he was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t have ran away, ran again. Although it pained him dearly, robbed what little pride he may have had left: he knew now that Simon was the one, the last fling was out of his system.

And most of all, he wants his man. The father of his child, his Alpha.

“Did you get Simon anything for Father’s Day?”

“Yeah,” the realisation dawned on John, “I… I missed it. I freakin’ _missed_ it didn’t I?”

Sulking, the bassist turned to the guitarist. He bit into his bottom lip, before charging back into his bedroom. John fingered about in some drawers, muttering, asking himself how he could’ve been so stupid. That was another way that he had inadvertently hurt Simon, he was sure, he was determined to make it up to him.

A first Father’s Day is a milestone in and of itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes my entire AO3 word count to over 400,000. I haven’t even been on here a year.
> 
> I’m somewhat insane.


	33. Soon You’ll Belong To The Blessed, Spare Us Your Lives While We Need You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They really should’ve fought more but I need to get this moving. Perhaps I can tinker with these scenes later, for now it’s gotta be with a _bang. ___

It would be anything but easy. John was trembling heading back into the studio with Warren by his side. They had swung by his hotel on the way, John couldn’t imagine what Simon would’ve thought had he seen him wearing one of John’s beloved pieces. That would’ve turned the singer even further away, John wouldn’t have had a shot if he saw what he saw.

When he finally hunted Simon down he was recording, the red light was on and he had to be silent. The faint sounds of _Winter Marches On_ could be heard, Simon’s vocal was trembling slightly; adding that raw edge. John was outside, peering in, thoroughly relieved to see Barbarella in Nick’s lap. She was enthralled, it seemed, watching her daddy like that. Hearing him, his vocal amplified throughout the small space. She was even clapping along, swaying in Nick’s grip.

John wiped a stray tear, there was a hand on his shoulder. He let Warren throw an arm around him, pulling him in tight. The guitarist whispered something vaguely dirty to get John to snap out of it, John did just that with a choked off giggle.

**_Loud, is the music,_ **

Together they crept in, basking in the shadows of the other side to the sound booth. Barbarella squealed, throwing her hands forward and asking John to pick her up. Simon hadn’t noticed him, he thought, Simon was throughly lost in his world: rattling off perfect take after take.

**_The crowd is ringing._ **

John was in tears again as he clutched his baby tight. Together they took that sacred step forward so they were in the light, they were both waving at Simon through the glass. John kissed her, Barbarella giggled back at him. He hoisted her into the air, so she could press her teeny hands up to the glass. Finally, he let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, he was faced by two beady blue eyes roaming his form.

**_Out of my head,_ **

****

John straightened up but didn’t back away. He stepped even closer, putting his own hand forward, resting his open palm up against the glass. The track seemed to fizzle out, time had slowed itself down and he was caught. Caught in the singer’s trance. The singer, who had taken off his headphones and was walking towards him. The singer who was smiling at their baby, pulling stupid faces to make her laugh.

**_As the Winter Marches On._ **

The singer, who’s gaze was so intense it landed on John and pierced deep into his soul. The gaze was tired, overworked, overwhelmed… in need. Simon needed John just like John needed him.

**_Winter Marches On._ **

John did cry then. Only now he was being swept away by the regal backing track, lost in the string section. Simon’s hand came to rest against his; separated by the cruel glass pane. John’s eyes fluttered shut, hand atop of Simon’s hand and Simon’s rich voice began to flow again. Without the aid of a microphone, just his raw and solemn vocal, penetrating deep into John and twisting his heart in a vice.

John simply mouthed the words _I’m_ _sorry_ and Simon was out of there, ending the take.

“No more running away, John. No more petty fights. You stick beside me, I’m here to stay.”

The voice was assertive, John couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“Are you?”

Trembling, he was mere inches away from John, no glass to stop them now.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathed, barely audible.

As if on cue, Nick was stood by John’s side to take Barbarella from him. John almost missed that, his gaze didn’t waver from Simon. He was growing blurry, tears filling the bassist’s eyes and:

“I’m _sorry_.” John had the whole speech planned, had done since leaving his apartment. But as soon as Simon dared to lay a hand on him, as soon as Simon’s fingers ran their way down his sides, to lace themselves with John’s string sliced own; all his thoughts bled into mush, his tongue stalled and he let Simon’s mouth do the talking.

His talented lips searched for John’s, his breath was hot and heavy as John’s lips involuntarily parted. He had a tender hand through John’s greasy hair, running through the kinks, rounding down to his shoulders and trailing down his spine. The kiss left him breathless, John pulled away with a hiss before pinning himself to Simon again. Their bodies danced the melody they wrote together, he let Simon guide his hips. He let Simon break away, holding his cheek in the palm of his hand.

He let Simon wipe away the water from his face, he was looking right into the eyes of anyone but a stranger.

Leaning into that open palm, barely in a breath he uttered, “I _love_ you Simon. So much.”

Their lips met again, sharing precious breath after breath.

“I’m not,” John’s voice was shaky as he pulled away, teardrops in his eyes and he was trembling all over, “ _leaving_ you again. If you’ll have me,” he stammered, lacing their fingers together, “I want to be yours, _forever_.”

Both men knew exactly what that meant. That pair mark was coming.

When Simon had started crying, John didn’t know. He flung himself into the singer’s open arms, crumbling into his neck and letting Simon patch him back up with every tender caress and vocal. John kissed him desperately, needing to taste him, to thrust his own words into Simon’s mouth and let his tongue do the talking.

Living together, the stage was coming.

They parted as the tinkly tones of their beloved sounded again. John broke away, hoisting their daughter upwards and bringing her over to Simon.

A proper house, full of family photographs, paintings, gold discs and awards was coming.

For the first time, they had a proper family hug, Barbarella getting squished in between her parents, her own cheeks were stained with their tears. But she was laughing, kicking and squealing between them; bringing John in even closer with her spirit, the love he held for her. The love he held for Simon.

Coming out to the press, the world, was coming.

“I love _you_ , Simon.” He repeated, learning over Barbarella to kiss him on the cheek.

“I know.” There was a giggle from Barbarella, “I love you too John.”

Reeling him in for another embrace, John mouthed a simple _thank you_ in Warren’s direction. The guitarist winked, before slipping out of the booth with Nick beside him.

***  
  


“I have something for you.”

They were holding hands, John’s callouses brushing lightly against Simon’s perfect fingers, atop of the table. In the canteen for the whole world to see.

“I’ll have to let go of your hand though.” John murmured, with a smile.

“That’s not a problem!” Simon was giddy, lips instantly attaching themselves to John’s earlobe as he delved into his bag, Barbarella nibbling on Leonard’s fuzzy ear in his lap.

“I’m so sorry I forgot, Charlie, I didn’t mean too but…”

John engulfed a shaky breath, before plastering the biggest smile to his face.

“A first Father’s Day deserves somethin’ special, _more_ than special. Me and Barbie have this for you.”

He was grinning, baring his teeth as he slipped a large but thin box over to Simon. John laughed, Simon’s eyes had widened comically upon seeing such an inviting box.

“John, you didn’t have too. And Barbie!” He nudged her, provoking another beautiful little laughing fit. “What did you and mummy get up too? Huh?! _Scheming_ again?”

“Just open the damn thing!”

“Alright, alright! Jeez, keep your mullet on.”

Then, softer, “I hope you love it.” John kissed his cheek, letting go of Simon’s left palm so he could remove the silken ribbon.

John’s eyes trailed his wonderful hands, the light caught Simon’s insignia ring on his right ring finger. He cast a glance down to his own hands, to a certain finger on a certain hand. John ran a finger over it, imagining there be an added weight. He held his breath, sniggering as Barbarella did the same.

“I would’ve gotten you a car but uh, then you bought a _boat_.”

She squealed. So did Simon.

“John, oh my.. it’s, it’s beautiful!” Simon’s voice was light, full of love and adoration.

They both ran their eyes over it fondly, John began pointing parts out, nudging Simon and giggling in his ear. Simon’s eyes didn’t seem to budge from what he was holding: the masterpiece created for him by his idiot Taylor and bouncing baby girl. Simon was clutching a huge collage, unfolding it to reveal a disarray of photographs and magazine clippings. He unveiled headlines and quotes, floral prints and glitter. The spread was beautiful, it was a whole savoured collection of his portraits. Fancy suits and roses, heavy gazes and pouty lips.

All the black John could’ve dreamed of, if he was there too.

John almost choked on his words, reading out his own little scrawl. “For the time we,” he paused to lace their fingers together again, “we’ve been apart.”

John sat Barbarella atop of the table before them both.

Nodding to their pride and joy, Leonard The Lion too, “and she’s _Still In Your Heart_.”

Together their gazes roamed over all the pictures of Barbarella’s daddy, pulling all sorts of weird faces and silly poses for the countless _Arcadia_ articles. John watched as Simon’s forefinger traced the bassist’s glittery words, his lyrics, reciting them. The roses he painted, the thick swooshes of applied acrylic dusted with ruby glitter.

He and Barbarella had their fun. There were even teeny little fingerprints creeping into frame…

John surveyed the tears that began to roll, knowing that he too was not that far behind.

“It’s _stunning_ , like you Johnny.”

Simon placed his collage back atop the table, John followed his lips as they slammed into his; hands in his hair, drawing a breathless whine and had John thrusting himself forward into Simon’s heat.

Technically Simon didn’t say ‘thank you’ but his wandering lips, Barbarella singing along with him, said plenty.

***  
  


He was giggling as his head lolled back into the pillows, whining as hot fingertips skirted down his frame, caressed his sides, his ribs, perking up his nipples in their wake. He keened as they slipped inside. He groaned into that open mouth, kissing away his inhibitions, welcoming himself back into a world of pleasure and lust. That world of love, worship and adoration.

His skin was brandished with that holy touch, dusting his neck in a ruby hue. They were binding themselves together, limbs entwined. They shared precious breaths and dropped treasured moans. Together they rocked deeper into the night, with a simple push and pull of a perfect pair.

The heat, the fire, the rekindle of that sacred flame, it was all back.


	34. It Means So Much To Me, Like A Birthday Or A Pretty View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how all over the place this one may seem.
> 
> It’s about time I started wrapping this fic up, me thinks.

Rolling over, there was a small chuckle, then a pleased sigh as they boop-booped noses and John huddled himself in tight. This time, the sheets smelt right, of _them_ and _their_ lust. Of their love, simmering beneath the surface and coming out of every pore.

Laying side by side, John wrapped a leg around Simon, shuffling in even closer to bury his face in his chest, clutching at his golden chain tight. He shivered, watching as Simon’s fingertips ghosted over his arms; down towards his butt and he cupped a cheek. John laughed, pushing back into that grip, letting a single finger slip inside with a shaky breath.

“Turn over,” it was kissed into his forehead.

Biting his lip, unable to hide his blush, John clambered over and pushed his body back into Simon’s who’s plush lips began another trail, starting at his ear lobe. Simon savoured each and every little nip of skin as John bit his lip. Simon kissed his way down to John’s shoulders and back. John groaned, it was breathy and full of heat, pressing himself further back into Simon.

He let Simon crowd him, grinding slowly up against him, rocking in time as the singer slipped a digit in. John threw his head back, hitting that golden chest with a hiss. He cocked a leg up higher, pushing his hips back as another finger filled him. Then another and another. He didn’t stifle his moans, he groaned low as Simon’s lips nibbled at his jawline.

John sent a shaky hand behind him, clutching to all that he could of Simon, hunting him down and keeping him close. He was whining now, shuddering on those fingertips. He was getting desperate, chest flush and eyes shut, for more.

A simple nod, a quick scramble from behind and John was lovingly taken; in one swift move he was filled and stretched, letting out a single short breath and buckling back onto Simon’s length.

They went slow, maddeningly slow. Simon’s strokes were powerful and controlled, he had John gasping for breath and whining for more. John clasped at him from behind, Simon’s own hands latched tight to his cocked thigh. The other was running down John’s chest, massaging lightly, teasing his nipples before inching down further and further. Torturously further, igniting sparks within his wake.

John yelped, the single touch of his lower abdomen was too much, he was begging for Simon to pick up his pace. He heard a small chuckle, a breathless plea dropped from John’s lips and Simon slammed into him, rocking with him, finding his pace and living John’s rhythm. 

John had a hasty hand on himself now, unable to open his eyes and to say anything more than ‘I love you.’ His breathing was growing rapid, out of sync with Simon just a moment behind. John’s hips were stuttering, his own grip faltering, as Simon thrusted harder and deeper; twisting his insides and threatening him to come undone, ripped at the seams.

“Can.. can I?” John yelped, desperate to kiss him but he couldn’t reach.

“Come Johnny,” there was a grunt, a snap of wild hips, “ _come_ for me.”

Within moments John whited out, tears were brimming in his eyes and his hands were losing purchase clawing at Simon. His gut twisted, he clutched deep to the pulsing member inside of him and he was coming, loud and messy, crying out and wallowing in the intense pleasure. His inner walls were contracting, stomach in knots, as he slammed himself down onto Simon a final time, sending him raging over the edge. Simon filled him over and over, panting and groaning his way through, desperate kisses littering John’s sweaty shoulders and neck.

Together they came crashing down, John’s whole body jolting as Simon dropped his leg and John battled for breath. He clutched tight to Simon, still inside of him. He didn’t want to let his front man go, not now or never.

Thankfully he didn’t have too, with grace Simon leant over him, searching for John’s parted lips and flushed cheeks. He kissed away the sweat, the tears, rocking slightly within John and he groaned, already feeling that little pleasure spark within him.

John’s hand shot itself down, lapping up at the mess he had made. With a breathless laugh, Simon was kissing him again, talking and moaning through it. John couldn’t help but be pinned, letting Simon clamber atop him, still connected: determination writ across his face.

“Happy Birthday, baby.” Those words were heaven, rolling off of heavenly lips.

John blushed, feeling that life begin to pulse again within him, he blushed deeper as he began to revive himself. His fingers were sticky, he was still fighting for breath but Simon, the trooper, had a smooth hand on top of him. Together they pumped him, nice and slow, rhythmical, as John shivered and thrust into the light touch.

Simon began to withdraw then, John let him with a pleased sigh. He flung the condom far, with John too high on bliss to note what spilled out, laughing. John’s hand closed in on its destination, luring Simon towards him again. Using his stronger arms, Simon towered over him, delivering hot; open mouthed kisses as their members began to brush and grind, John’s fingers splayed around them both as Simon sucked at his lips and John stroked them both faster.

  
***  
  


Their photographs from Drum hit the stands the very same day. How Simon managed that, John had no idea. They were both welcomed into the studio with cheers, a huge grin from Warren and a hug from Nick.

They walked over the threshold hand in hand, Barbarella in the other, kicking and squealing as together she and Simon sang _Happy Birthday Dear Mummy_ , John could only laugh, Barbarella’s pitch was absolutely perfect for the falsetto in _Skin Trade_.

_She would fit any track._

John figured he and Simon looked a little ridiculous, face half smushed into his crazy black and red patterned shirt that if he stared too long it would give him a teeny headache. Then he was wearing, of course, his classic leopard print shirt with the shoulder pads that after three months Barbarella was still finishing joy in slamming her head into the padded comfort. What a family.

_Her_ _beautiful laugh, her claps… her heartbeat._

Simon planted a huge, sloppy kiss to his cheek which had John wincing and Barbarella pulling a face, before John furrowed his brows and pulled away so he could stick his tongue out at his baby instead. What a family, indeed.

_Her drumbeat._

“Don’t tell me you both are pregnant again,” Nick began, with a devilish glint in his eye, “I haven’t seen you so happy in yonks, Nigel.”

John hugged him again, once having torn Simon’s lips from his cheeks: to much protest!

“ _No_ , God could you imagine?” They both laughed, long and hearty.

Handing Barbarella over to her daddy, Leonard in her grip, he and Nick took a seat. John was smiling, beckoning his best friend into another hug.

His voice dropped low, “I have to thank you.”

Nick’s eyes flashed. “Christ, keep word of last night’s antics to yourse—”

“—No, Nicky!” John giggled, “Christ I meant, I have to thank you for the other day. For the _fight_ , I guess.”

“The fight?” Nick adopted that tone that always made him straighten up his act.

“Um yeah. Without that, you know, tough love, me and Charlie wouldn’t… wouldn’t…”

“I do not need the image of my baby brother getting his—”

“— Relax!” John chuckled, throwing his head back and delivering merry little laugh after laugh. “Be back together!” He yelped, half-hiccuping through his words.

John’s eyes followed the keyboardist as he upped from his seat.

“You’re welcome,” he winked, John beamed back at him.

Then out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another figure approaching him. He turned, letting Warren pull him up into a big birthday hug.

“I would’ve gotten you something had I known before.”

“Don’t mention it,” John mumbled in his ear, refusing to pull away so soon. “You’ve done enough already. Thank _you_.”

“Ugh, Johnny.”

John’s gaze widened, he really had smushed his face into Warren’s neck a little too long. He broke away, embarrassed, gaze on his hands that were still tingling with the guitarist’s soft touch.

“Happy Birthday, man.”

John nodded, watching his silhouette begin to blur. With a gulp, he began to follow, heading to the booths to watch Warren record his track. He was meant to be watching Simon but, for reasons that didn’t need much discussion, he would rather watch Warren instead.

“Thought you left.”

He smiled, sheepish, “‘bout time we had another guitarist on side.” John nodded to him, accidentally brushing Warren’s hand with his. “Ahem, uh, you… you carry on, I wanna watch.”

“Alright Johnny.” He flashed him another million dollar smile and John was staring, eyes trained onto that muscular frame as it disappeared deeper into the booth; lost behind the sound deck, a mere speck of black amongst the thick red walls.

The light flicked itself on and John fell silent. He could only hear his breath as it was caught in his throat, watching those talented hands caress those strings. John was sure he was grinning like a loon but that didn’t matter: his gaze stayed firm, in awe, planted on Warren’s dizzying silhouette.

***  
  


“I think it’s time that I,” Simon paused, kissing John quick, “give you this.”

The three of them were lazing on Simon’s bed, Barbarella had been thoroughly absorbed in her toys until Simon brandished a slick silver box with a dazzling cobalt bow. John giggled, crawling over to hoist her up as her eyes widened. John fingered the bow, before handing it to Barbarella; keeping a close watch in case she tried to stuff it in her mouth. Instead she turned to her mummy, wondering what to do with it. John stuck it too her teeny little biker jacket, adding some of Simon’s blue to his red, and she greeted him with a seal of approval through her happy clapping.

Bobbing in his lap, together he and Barbarella tore at the silver paper. John had always been a little meticulous about it, wanting to savour it and all but this time he gave into Simon’s smirk and literally devoured the box.

“The hell?”

Only to reveal another, smaller box.

John quirked a brow. Simon waggled his.

“A game of Pass The Parcel it is!” John ‘passed’ it to Barbarella, who pouted. With a small smile, “and back to me.”

John unraveled each and every layer, with each one Simon’s smile seemed to grow. He was itching to get to the damn last layer, flinging wrapping paper all over the place. He was almost there, the parcel now a thin line, taunting him in his own grip. A final yank at the sellotape and John’s fingers stalled.

“Holy Mother—”

Simon raced to protect Barbarella’s ears from the filth.

“— Fudger! _Glass Spider_ Tour!” He brandished the tickets, so full of excitement that he didn’t even bother to read the rest. “Thought they hadn’t announced this yet?!”

He flung himself at Simon, a surprised wail from his lap reminded him that Barbarella was there and she was precious and did not deserve to get squished.

“Sorry Baby, sorry!”

So John threw himself and Barbarella into Daddy’s grip. Simon, who took the tickets from him, teased him, dangled them before his face.

“Read the damn thing!”

John carefully snatched them from Simon’s grasp, the tickets were sacred, he couldn’t bear the thought of ripping one.

He squinted, hunting for the date, “March 17, 1987… Toronto, Diamond Club.”

“And?” Simon let out in a huff.

“And what? It’s so far away!”

Cocking his head, “read the damn thing, _properly_ , you big baby.”

“I did! Jeez, Simon. Bowie, _Glass Spider_ Tour. March 17, 1987.” John squinted, finger tip tracing the ticket. “Opening act Duran Du- _what_?!”

John’s pretty mouth dropped open, he swung his head back to Simon so fast that Barbarella fell from his grip and his fringe blinded him.

“Duran Du- _who_?” Simon waggled his brows again, wondering how much longer it would take for John to get it.

John, who was comically turning his head from his hands to Simon. Tickets to Simon. Tickets to Simon. Tickets to—

“You got us on a _Bowie_ tour?!” John leapt about a foot in the air.

“Took you long enough,” John slapped him as those beady blue eyes rolled.

“How, what, when, why… the other one… Simon, what?!”

“ _Who_. There are more dates to be confirmed, North America later in the year. We’ll be opening a few shows.”

“My God! Simon, I,” he tripped over his tongue, “I.. I can’t even..”

John was silenced with Simon’s lips. Hands in his hair, running down his neck.

“You’re welcome,” Simon chuckled, pulling away and bringing Barbarella into his lap. “Look at Mummy, Barbie, so happy!”

“Oh, Mummy is really _really_ happy. Daddy’s gon _get_ it later for keepin’ it all secret!” John teased, keeping it PG for his baby. “ _Really_ get it.”

He didn’t miss that cheeky glimmer, dazzling in Simon’s eye. Gaze falling back to the sacred tickets, John pinched himself and giggled as he was content. It was really happening. He would be playing before his idol, supporting him and getting it on with his idol’s crowd.

Now that, although it terrified him, was the best birthday present he could’ve asked for… at least during the day with an infant present…

John well and truly _thanked_ him. And their fire danced through the night.

  
***  
  


Celebrations lasted all through the weekend. Just the three of them, the crucial three on Saturday. Then the _other,_ more notorious crucial three on Sunday around Nick and Julie Anne’s place. Yasmin and Simon helped out with the cooking, having banished John after almost lighting a tea towel on fire, as poor Jules really couldn’t be stood up and deal with that heat now for so long.

His mind flashed back to this very same scenario, almost identical, huddled around a feast at Christmas last year. When he and Simon found out Nick and Jules’ wonderful news. _He better not go name her after a flower, or Jane Fonda,_ John sniggered _. Another six weeks or so_ , John was reminded. He couldn’t wait to meet his little niece, couldn’t wait to spoil her rotten.

Crowding around their huge dining room table, ready to devour their roast - _not exactly like how Mamma Taylor would make but it’ll do_ \- John cast a glance to an empty seat. Although he really wasn’t sure who should’ve been there. Yasmin slid in beside Simon, laughing her beautiful laugh as he pulled stupid face after face at Barbarella on her play mat a couple metres away from him. Next to Yasmin sat Julie Anne, then Nick wrapped a silken hand around his wife’s shoulders. John was ironically at the head of the table, Birthday Boy and all, wondering who should’ve been opposite. His King.

His mind said ‘R.’ _Ro- Re- Renée_ _right?_ His heart, well, his heart was deafened by the cymbals, a smash of the snare.

“Cheers, to my baby brother and his baby podge,” Nick raised a glass. It was water, comically.

“Huh?” Sounded from the bassist’s end of the table.

Chuckling, a finger was pointed to him, “that’d be _you_ Johnny.”

“Oh right Charlie, right.”

The table was far too long for John to reach anyone so he just held up a hand and downed half a glass. He pretended it was wine although was oddly thankful, Nick didn’t need to hear it now, that once again it wasn’t.

“Twenty-six, good Lord!”

John forbid his mind to wander, caught up in the chatter, confining himself to one room. Which worked for about five minutes. Magazine stands were filled with he and Simon. Double page spreads plastered with Drum, with John, with Barbarella. Simon, John and Barbarella were surely all over the UK entertainment news by now. He had shunned himself away from it all, he could deal poorly with that on Monday.

See just where Duran stood on Monday.

“Think we’ll make it to _thirty_?!”

The damn lawsuit was really taking off now too, his mind flashed up a couple court dates. Not that they were even at that stage properly yet, he could still see it coming.

“Fuck no!” John gaped, casually, having no idea who was still speaking to him.

All four heads turned to him, sharp.

  
The thought of standing before a judge, decked out in an overpriced and stuff suit, arguing over who was once his best friend and biggest ally.   
  


Blushing, “sorry.”

Who gave up everything just to fly with him across the world, partake in his grand scheme to get himself and Simon out of the picture.

“John, is everything alright?”

Who literally delivered his daughter.

“John, sweetie, what is it?”

He dismissed them with a shaky wave of a hand, rising to his feet and heading to Barbarella playing merrily with a sea of fluffy toys. John picked her up, Leonard The Lion was practically glued to her nowadays, before heading back to the table.

Without word, John picked up his plate and balanced Barbarella and dinner out in his shaky hands. Without word, he stalked out of the main room and headed into the grand foyer, then into the little cozy front room full of sparkles and wonder that Barbarella loved so much. Together they paraded in, her little fingers clutching to his curls and she was laughing softly.

He placed her down before him, she lolled about about abit and his words dropped hot off of his tongue.

“Mummy is terrified, you know.” 

  
Barbarella kept on her little cackles, thoroughly absorbed in the gleaming pink cushions and satin sofa.   
  


“What if... we don’t win? Can that happen?”

She clutched Leonard tighter.

“I don’t think he deserves it, none of this is even his fault.”

She was sucking on Leonard’s ear.

With a small sigh, “I miss him, I bet you miss him too don’t you baby? He did so much for you, _both_ of them and...” he sniffed, sucking down another bite of vegetables, “they won’t even see you, Barbie look at me, they won’t even see you, sweetheart, grow up.”

John sniffed again, trying to stifle it by shoving more roast potatoes into his gob. Followed by a slightly overdone Yorkshire pudding.

“Neither of them will. You won’t even _know_ them.” He enables a shaky breath, wondering where the hell he was going with this.

“I want _you_ to know _them_ , they meant so much to me and Daddy.” 

  
John let a stray tear pelt his plate.

He bought the fork towards him again, shaking slightly, “I want _them_ to know _you_. We’ve been,” his voice was trembling now, “through so damn much.. why stop now? Why _now?_ ”

John watched with curiosity as another tear ran its way down his cheek. He heard the small drop, it landed right beside his untouched chicken. John swept another tear and his gaze fell to Barbarella. She was staring at him now, intently, he really wondered when she had started listening; whether she really could understand him and comfort him.

He once thought it ridiculous that he had even acknowledged her when her life was blossoming inside of him. He thought it crazy that he gave her a name when she was the size of a mere peanut. But nowadays, he didn’t care who heard, he just couldn’t stop talking to her. Confessions, revelations, thoughts and worries: she heard it all. He scoffed, knowing an eleventh month old couldn’t be listening and really taking anything in. He stuffed another bite of cool vegetables and gravy into his mouth, not really wanting to eat anymore.   
  


“I.. I, oh God, Barbie,” he sniffled again, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “I miss them. Mummy really misses—”

“—Don’t we all?”

John was silenced, bleary eyes landing on the figure sparkling in the doorway. Somehow, even brighter than the room itself.

A small, soft hand was laid out before him. A crumbling John took it, stumbling to his feet and shoving his twitching body in a much more secure frame.

“Nigel, shhh now, it’s okay. I’m sure Barbarella doesn’t want to see you so upset.”

John shivered in Nick’s grip. He wanted to absorb his warmth, let his positive outlook wrap him in said warm embrace and bleed some happiness into his veins. John didn’t even know why he was reacting this way, he couldn’t comprehend his thoughts; only bury his head deeper into Nick’s neck and poorly stifle his cries.

Nick pulled away first, with a tender hand on John’s back. He rubbed it slightly, guiding him back to the sofa. Nick grabbed his plate and handed it back to John, he stayed in the half hug as he ate, stomach battling to keep it all down, the whole meal. It took him longer than it should have, still taking shaky breaths with tears in his eyes. Still holding his bleary gaze on Barbarella who seemingly didn’t take her own widened, confused and upset gaze off of her Mummy.

“Shall I call Simon to get her, so we can talk properly?” Nick whispered, running his hand through John’s rumpled mullet. “Just us, Nigel.”

John’s eyes didn’t leave his daughter’s. She was staring intently again, the way she always did when she was one step ahead: knowing him better, his mannerisms and trail of thought, then he ever did.

He nodded his head, falling back into Nick’s hold with a sigh.

“Just lemme hug her again, first.”

Nick slowly peeled himself from his bandmate, John’s gaze didn’t leave Barbarella as the door opened and shut before him.

“Oh Barbie,” John’s fingers inched over to scoop her up, “where would I be without you?”

She made a sound, answering back. She shuffled forward, his irises broadened and mouth dropped open. She was pointing, pushing her prized possession into his hands, trying to crawl over to him in the small space.

With another beaming smile, one that scarily resembled little Nigel, Barbarella pushed Leonard The Lion into John’s clammy palms, insisting he take him. She wrapped her little arms around herself, giving herself a hug and instructed John to do the same. It took him a moment, not wanting to take his eyes off of her for a split second, to realise what she meant.

Then, with a small smile, John hoisted Leonard upwards and clutched him tight. His tears pelted the golden fur, leaving them stained dark and damp. He clutched him so tight that he wasn’t sure he could let Leonard go, give him back. Barbarella’s tinkly tone sounded again, beckoning John to her to hug her too.   
  


John swooped down, bringing her in nice and tight. Together the happy little family embraced in a hug, both Taylors sharing Leonard between them. He was kissing her, running his moist lips over her cheeks. He bopped her teeny nose, provoking a small giggle, and John couldn’t help himself.

Once again, his precious little podge saved him; in her own special way. Barbarella was clapping in his lap, Leonard still that security blanket in his fingertips. They were both playing with him, giggles dropping and smiles that were so beautiful, John had to study her to savour the moment.

“How are you nearly _one_?”   
  


She shimmied in his grip as Simon and Nick entered, calling for Daddy to pick her up and to sing to her.

Thankfully, Simon read his daughter’s mind, John’s gut churned as Simon saw his tear tracks and red face, as he fell to his knees before John; wiping the last of the water from his face.

They shared a quick kiss, Barbarella clambering into Simon’s arms and he was singing something. Something very familiar, humming a very familiar tune.

It wasn’t until he bid farewell to Simon and Barbarella that it hit him: _Tell Me All You Know_ , Simon had remembered his tune. The thought made him want to cry harder, full of joy this time.

Gaze fleeting to Nick, the keyboardist braced himself at John’s side, ready to hash out John’s inner demons once again.

The lawsuit. Drum. The press... it would be a long night but Nick didn’t leave his side.


	35. A Quiet Word Is My Proposition

Early July was chock full of interviews, photoshoots, press junkets: the whole lot. Everyone wanted a piece of them, the notorious trio. Both Simon and John vowed that now they were ‘out’ as a family, they would find the real life in their illusion; face the world and what they though of them together.

The talkshows were endless. John had lost track of where they were, who they were whoring Barbarella out to, tonight.

**_… finally breaks silence. Duran star announces the father of his child, fellow band mate Simon—_ **

“Almost ready, Mr Taylor?”

**_… caught an exclusive interview with the singer, about his love and newfound pride and joy…_ **

****

“Two minutes, Mr Taylor.” A humble stage hand called.

**_… Duran are no longer a five piece…_ **

****

The damn thing was so loud and nauseating that John could hear all parts of their unceremonious introduction from his dressing room.

**_… the bassist, now 26, to discuss the move from the wild bachelor life in the fast lane; to stay at home parents…_ **

He was rummaging through his stuff, hunting for that precious salvation that would get him through this, this hour. Duran’s finest hour: they couldn’t be any further from it.

_**... no more sex, drugs and rock and roll, or is it?** _

John croaked, “you’d think, huh?”

Eyes widening, bottom lip trembling, he spilled out the contents atop of the dressing table and hurriedly leant over. He took a whiff, up sharp and harsh, jittering and clutching at his head. He slammed his fist into his own thigh a couple times, trying not to scream.

“Fuck, asshole!”

_I’ve done it wrong, surely._

In his head he was hollering, tearing up and then his knees gave way. He slammed his head into the side of the chair, determined to knock whatever this was from him.

_It has been a while. That was it, surely._

Stumbling back to his feet, clutching aimlessly at the dressing table, John threw the remaining crystals aside and forced them away. Eyes scarily wide, blown dark, he emptied what was left into his inner jacket pocket.

He dove headfirst into Simon’s imposing silhouette outside, if he squinted John could make out the light sweat covering his forehead. He watched him blink a couple times, now standing beside a couple cameramen just off the side of the stage.

“You ready, luv?” John nudged him, practically jumping.

There was a low whistle, “it’s now or never, I guess.”

  
“You _guess_?”

John gulped. Simon was never nervous, for anything, anymore.

“Simon, ‘tis it baby?”

His beady blues were glassy, distant. John’s brows furrowed, he wouldn’t take his hand as his string worn finger tips lightly brushed against Simon’s. He had frozen somehow. If John’s pulse wasn’t rabbiting like it was, if the room wasn’t spinning in dazzling neon pinks and blues like it was, John may have been able to stop and hear Simon’s jacked up heartbeat. Hear his whimpers over his irregular, irrational heartbeat.

“John, I- agh!”

The bassist reeled his man in. A hot brush of trembling lips, John could taste the worry on his tongue. He was determined to lap it all up, suck out the last of Simon’s inhibitions and fears from him: fill them with John’s (forced) certainty, his _love_ that he wore on his boxy black sleeve.

“Ladies and Gentleman, what’s left of Dura— _oh my!_ Catch that on camera!”

It took Simon a tenth of a second to respond, nipping and sucking lightly on John’s bottom lip. John’s hat was knocked from him, there were hands in his hair.

“You _Wild Boys,_ what a scene that was!”

They broke away panting, now a few inches from the sound guy and three cameras were rolling right before their surprised faces. John could only flush a noticeable shade of crimson darker and shrug; he blamed the intense light now shining on him and not Simon’s mere presence at his side. He slowly retrieved his hat, coughing, as he dusted it off and covered his greasy mullet with it.

“Well, can’t say I don’t love ‘im now, can ya Joan?” John waggled his brows, there was a devilish glint flickering in his widened eyes.

They plopped themselves down before their host, Joan Rivers, hand in hand. The world knew Simon loved to talk with his hands, so expressive and open, but John wasn’t letting go of his left palm in his own right.

“I ‘avent started interrogating ya’s yet, John!” She replied, in her iconic gravely voice that still made John internally cringe.

Her gaze was piercing, they would have to watch their words, their actions.

Thankfully though, they’d rehearsed their responses over and over. John knew what to say, when to let Simon speak.

“Who was the wildest in your wild boys days?”

A random chick in the audience piped up, she screeched: “ _JOHN!_ ”

_Shit_. John flushed scarlet.

“And Simon, you bought a boat?!”

John knew when to act, when to let Simon _act_. Really act.

“Yeah, the crew and I are going to race her. Drum. At Fastnet, later this year. We’re training right now!”

“Isn't that a little _dangerous_ with an infant daughter?”

“Well, she’s not there with me all the time! Only for photographs!”

He knew to slump into Simon’s arms, always keeping real close and attentive to the man he loved as the man he loved rambled on about John, their little family, Nick, how John was everything he could’ve wanted and more.

  
_Huh? When had the topic changed?_

“He’s the love of my life, has been since ’82. And yet, don’t ask me how but Joan, I knew it when I first met him. Early 1980.”

John bit into his bottom lip, devouring every word.

“I caught his eye, he caught mine. I sang for him, he didn’t break his gaze.”

John coughed, blinking.

“I slipped his glasses from him, brushing out his fallen fringe. I ran my eyes all over his face and it was then, like _bam_!” Simon slammed his fist into the chair for emphasis, the audience erupted in a sea of giggles.

“See, _they_ get it!” Ms Rivers pointed to the crowd.

“I realised that he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Haven’t seen anyone so stunning, since. And this was _before_ the ruby hair and contacts!”

“Contacts, we got a picture?”

“Oh yeah,” Simon sang, “blind as a bat.”

There was a low ‘awww’ as some baby photos from the new romantic scene flashed up on screen. John wondered how Simon had gotten them there without him realising.

“It wouldn’t be until filming _Planet Earth_ that I realised there was something deeper.”

_Behind the scenes, the catastrophe that was my heat,_ John didn’t say.

“It would take us both another year to act on it.. that, that _impulse_. It was always there, that spark, that fire. Wasn’t it Johnny?”

John nodded, enthusiastically.

“Then comes our holiday in the Caribbean. In Antigua.. where we filmed the _Rio_ video. One thing led to another and Sri Lanka… well, I don’t think I need to say much more!” Simon joked, waggling his eyebrows. “All. He. Wants. Is.”

“Oh no, Simon, listen to them,” the crowd were in uproar again, “we _demand_ all the details!”

John cringed but he was still smiling, or trying to. “Oh _no_ , Simon. Stop with the details.” It was somewhat giggled, nervously.

“Stuff happened, you know the drill. He made his move and I made mine,” Simon’s tone dropped, he was treading gently on the ground, “and finally, _finally_ I had him. I’d loved him for two years and only now could we begin to realise it. Johnny, why ever did we wait so long?”

All those images were swirling about his head in a light, dusty pink. _Throwing up over the side of the yacht. Hands around him, steadying him. Hands around him, brushing his hair from his face. Almost being swept away by the tidal wave. Kicking at the wave and laughing. Moonlit walks on the beach. Reaching Simon’s cabin. The two of them watching the tide rest easy, hands beginning to wander._

“I love you, so damn much John.”

John promised himself he wouldn’t cry on national television but, goddamit, it didn’t take very long.

Their first kiss. The fireworks exploding behind his closed eyelids...

“B-beats.. beats me.” John sniffled, slowly coming back to reality. “I waited.. and waited, Charlie, I— yeah.”

Their first time...

Simon pressed a kiss into John’s neck, live on air, clutching tighter at his hands. He ran a tender thumb up to John’s streaming eyes, John’s gaze fluttered shut as his tears were swept away, fanning under his darkened lashes.

Their last time, which was only that morning. Long and loving, Simon rocking deeper and deeper into him. Twisting his insides, filling him over and over…

“Oh, you poor baby! Here John,” he was offered a sparkly tissue box.

“Thanks, ma’am.”

It was the only time John let Simon’s hand go throughout the whole half hour, was to wipe at his own snot.

“ _Romantic_ , isn’t it?” Simon quipped, moulding a hand into John’s quivering shoulder.

“ _Romance_ is my middle name, man.” John insisted, still sniffling.

Their next time. _Tonight, hopefully._

They rambled on a while. He was questioned over their love, their life, their baby.

“Your daughter. John, what’s her name?”

“My pretty, pretty Barbarella.” He let out in a huff, gaze planted on the slideshow of Drum as they flashed up on screen.

_I wish I could kiss him senseless, the audience would love it but surely I can’t again. They got a bloody eyeful._

The time pressed on and Simon began talking, steering the conversation. Them. _Only_ them. They stayed clear of the album’s (little) progression, how five had been whittled down to the crucial three, the lawsuit… unmentionable. John screwed his big mouth shut.

_I wish I could kiss him senseless, perhaps the audience would love that. They seem oddly accepting of us._

“And John, have you finally found the man? God, can’t believe it’s a man! The _man_ ,” Ms Rivers coughed, “who’ll put an end to your party days, your wild nights out, the endless women?”

  
_What women? It was always him._

With a barely stable breath, wanting to bawl again, John replied “… yes.”

_Always us._

“I’m sorry, Johnny. Have you finally been tamed?” It was sly, John could practically hear that shit-eating grin from beside him. “Ladies,” Simon adressed the audience, all the squeals, “can we let him do that? For _me_?!”

John fought the urge to slap Simon round the back of his head.

  
“I don’t want your love to break me dow-woah!”   
  


John silenced that urge with a kiss.

“ _Yes_ Simon,” still panting, “you twat. The ladies can an’ better.”

Then came his turn to confess his love for Simon. He tripped, he stumbled, sniffling and seeing spots. Only when Simon laid a tender hand on his again, pulling John in for a tight half hug; did the clouds begin to part.

_Maybe there’s a place for us._

He loved Simon, with all his heart. The stream of tears voiced that, although he cursed it. The heat in his gaze confirmed that, he didn’t want to diminish that fire.

_Far from the Mediterran— Caribbean._

“What about a house? You guys livin’ together?” This was the part where Ms Rivers would get fishing, digging deep.

_No, why would we?_

Both Durans straightened up.

_Shouldn’t we?_

“What about a ring?!”

_What ring?_

_I couldn’t get married._

They were so close, John was sure, so damn close to ‘happily ever after’ now.

_I couldn’t get married. I couldn’t let the last two available Durans get off the market. The fans were dwindling enough as it was, they don’t want anything to do us him. They are growing up and so are we. It’s all over, right? I couldn’t get married. I couldn’t let the last two—_

“Someday, yeah we’ll have a house together.” Simon answered for him.

_I couldn’t get married. Why would I even want too?_

“Actually Joan, I can’t wait! He still needs to sell his place in New York. Just a little longer.” Simon continued, voice light and airy.

_I’ve never wanted too, the thought is still petrifying and… why am I rubbing that finger?_

“John?”

_Why does it feel so empty?_

“John, baby?”

_So bare._

His gaze shot up, bleary again.

_I have that pair mark, now. Isn’t that enough?_

“Oh for the love of!” He swept them away, again. “Hormones. Christ, I’m sorry.”

_How long had I phased out?_

“John, is everything—”

John, eyes wide, steamrolled straight over him with such a conviction in his voice it scared them both.

“— I _want_ that house. I want that house! I wanna live with you, I want that security, your love and support. I.. I, God, I.. Simon, I wanna wake up next to you, every mornin’.” His heart was racing a mile a minute, he was trying so damn hard to not let the river run, sweep his emotions out to sea.

“I _need_ you, luv. Loud is the music…” John broke off with a giggle.

The bassist was met with the biggest, most beautiful smile that had ever crossed his lover’s face. There was no way he would be forgetting this one.

_What ring?_

It didn’t matter what was running through his veins. It was what was running through his _heart_ that mattered.

_There’s a ring?_

John didn’t tear his gaze away, neither did Simon.

“Well folks!” Ms Rivers’ grating voice pulled John out of his trance. “You ‘eard it here first! They’re gonna tie the knot!”

“Wait, _what_?” John spat, twirling around in at ungodly speed. “What?”

_Oh no._

They shared a glance. The audience erupted in wild cheers and hollers.

_I couldn’t get married. Why would I ever?_

“John?” Simon whispered, massaging his sweaty palm. “John, what is it?”

_I’m not… I’m not…_

“That daughter of yours will be delighted, to finally have her parents together. Forever.”

_I’m not… forever?_

“Yeah, forever! See,” she signalled to the crowd of manic fans, “ _they_ get it!”

_Husband?_

John’s mind was running a mile a minute.

_Wife?_

“You see, Joan, I, I uh, do..d- _don’t_ think that we—”

_Do you take the, Simon John Charles Le Bon, to be your lawfully wedded husband?_

“— And that’s all we’ve got time for tonight, folks! Thanks again for coming on the show boys, I hope to see you both back with some new _album_ material, very soon!”

_I…_

“To play us out, it’s _Thompson Twins_.”

The bell rang and the lights went up. John was out of there faster than he could say ‘send me your warning siren.’

_I do._

He ran, barely making it in time to slump over the toilet in his dressing room. He voiced his guts twice, flushed it, sweating profusely. John’s hand shot straight back into his pocket: longing for a taste of white heaven.  
  


_I do it all to have you._


	36. Hear, When You Don’t Listen

It had been years since he had sat solitary, basking in the dazzling night sky and the lights that made it dizzying, nauseating and an undoubtable excitement all at once.

He was atop the building to his apartment, having clambered out the fire escape. It wasn’t something John didn’t do as often now, knowing the past couple times he had ventured this high up on tour… well, that hadn’t gone well for anyone involved. Bottles were thrown and bottles were smashed. It would’ve been a long, devastating fall.

  
Fall to his death, of course.

John was trembling, clutching a bottle tight. His gaze hadn’t left it, crowded by tears. He wanted to scream and shout, let the whole of London take on his problems for him. He wanted to swing it, then down it. He wanted to throw it back up. He wanted to toss the bottle for miles, for it to shatter atop his undriven _Mercedes_.

John did scream, he didn’t throw the bottle.

Again, he was hit by a sudden wave of nausea so violent that it could rival his early morning sickness days - the _undiagnosed_ \- a year and a half ago. If he was going to yack, the only place it could go was down. Rain down, letting gravity take its course, to the ground so far beneath him. He swallowed all that he could, fumbling over a cigarette to steady him.

John hadn’t opened the bottle, his beloved _Smirnoff_ lay limp in his grasp. The seal remained tight but somehow it wasn’t taunting John to open it.

“You can hear, when you don’t li-i-is- _sten_.” He breathed, barely above a whisper. “Oh, Charlie.”

It hit John then, as the bile was rising in his throat, _chewing his life supply_ , he hadn’t stopped to turn. He hadn’t stopped to think: how had Simon looked at those questions? - _Did he even answer?_ \- If he did, John didn’t hear him.

“You can hear… when, fuck, when you… don’t listen. Free to say maybe, _maybe_.”

Where was the real life, in this dizzying illusion? John was thrust deep into the dark side, totally lost amongst his powder and his confusion. How many more chances would he miss, not being able to listen? He silenced himself with another shaky drag; watching as the faint smoke disappeared into the murky smog all around him. He longed for the stars to guide his way.

John had to come down at some point though. The hours passed and it was sure well past 3AM. The chill swept him away and somehow, he disembarked without a scratch. Shuffled down the fire escape without a scratch.

Somehow he tumbled straight back to his apartment, Warren was waiting for him there, having taken John up on his offer to stay whilst he found himself the right place. John threw his quivering self in the guitarist’s supportive arms.

This wasn’t right, he was feeling the heat and deciding that he couldn’t go on.

He was sick again, overcome with sweat. The drugs weren’t sitting right, neither was the nicotine. John couldn’t touch the booze, he didn’t know why he didn’t want too.

Warren asked, pleaded with him to talk. John didn’t know what to say, he hadn’t any idea what was happening. It went without saying, however, that Warren had seen his latest near breakdown, live as it had happened. John wound the recording back, Nigel kept squawking over the parts he needed to hear.

  
“Shut up, you bastard bird!”

John was staring at the screen, dumbfounded.   
  


**_Well folks! You ‘eard it here first! They’re gonna tie the knot!”_ **

John’s gaze didn’t leave Simon’s face, distorted and disjointed as he fumbled with the recording.

**_Tie the knot!_ **

He couldn’t make it out, having wound the interview back so far, their images were crackling before him.

**_Tie the kn—_ **

The screen was black.

“No, no!” He screeched, throwing the remote.

John shoved his head into his hands, letting them take his weight. It took him a moment to realise he was being pulled into a hug, he was desperate not to bawl. Wanting to _belong to the blessed_ , was hard. 

“Out of my head as the _Winter Marches On._ ” The voice was beautiful, haunting almost. Not quite how Simon would do it but the vocal still left its impact. “Loud is the music, the crowd is bringing.”

He shifted, pulling himself free.

John’s shattered gaze landed on Warren. His bare chest, rumpled mullet, the sorrow in his eyes and lips in a flat line.

“ _Winter Marches On_.” The bassist joined in, poorly.

Then, somber, “Warren, what have I done?”

There was a heavy sigh, “I dunno, man. I really don’t. Nothing?”

John shrunk away in fear, staring aimlessly at the mirror on the wall.

“Do you want to get marr—”

“— Don’t say that word!”

He wasn’t lying, just maybe he didn’t believe that as strongly as he always had.

“But now, John?”

John gulped, waiting for the mirror to crack; for it to shatter into a thousand tiny shards just like his heart.

“I.. I don’t, Warren I don’t know.”

Like _Simon’s_ heart.

“He should be here with you, John, now. Not me.”

John sighed heavily, mulling it over.

“You should have that house. All three of you, Barbie _deserves_ it.”

John groaned in frustration.

“I don’t get it,” the guitarist began, “you’ve never let any interview crap get to you before. Why now?”

John didn’t either. His head was a mess. As was his stomach, apparently. It churned again, he near gagged.

“Dunno.” The answer was lame, forced. “It doesn’t make any ruddy sense! He didn’t even, you know, bloody _propose_ and this shit is out in the world now!”

“Yeah exactly, he didn’t. So, what’s the problem then?”

John fell silent.

Warren caught his bluff, as always. “You _want_ him too? He could though, someday.”

John couldn’t let his tongue get the better of him.

“John, mate, do you hear what I’m sayin’?”

So what did he do?

His hungry eyes fell to a drawer. He singled it out and sprinted over.

“John, don’t. You’ve been doing so well—”

He drank over it.

His hungry eyes fell to his pocket. He hurriedly dove inside.

“Don’t fight it, man. Don’t _run._ ”

_Too late there, Marlene_.

He got high over it.

John’s world lit itself alight, he awaited for the colours of his serenity to paint his palette. It didn’t. He only saw white, lots of white. And cream. And lace. And glasses. And confetti.

  
Bells.

He saw an abandoned bow tie, a sleek suit. The bleary shadow of a man, of another man, holding hands. Stood before each other, defeated by bells.

Church bells.

John screamed.

“What the fuck, John?!”

The bells kept ringing.

John didn’t speak. Was he frothing at the mouth, yet? He didn’t know.

_He’ll hear when he don’t listen. Bite his lip and bleed._

Something within him snapped, he jumped a foot in the air. Still surrounded by white, white, _white_ , he huffed his crisp white line.

_Much better._

The bells were still ringing.

“Who knows man,” John slapped a hand on Warren’s shoulder, “Charlie _might find somethin’ to last_.”

It was a nice change from a siren.

“ _Come_ ,” he giggled, letting the notion of his word linger. “Come, Warren come with me.”

With that John was up, bottle in hand and cigarette in the other.

“Please, again.”

Warren didn’t move.

“Again.”

Warren raised a brow.

“Again!” John screeched.

He beckoned Warren to join him in his bedroom, the guitarist stayed put.

“Don’t keep me waitin’, come and lie beside me.” John’s voice was taught, full of lust. “Just one more time, I need you.”

That siren would come later.

  
“Five nights ain’t enough?”   
  


“Never.” John insisted.

Warren raised to his feet. He brushed past a heaving John, heading to his own room.

  
“No way, Johnny. Get some sleep.”

“Oh, okay. Your loss then,” John barked, shrugging back on his coat, “gotta _party_ to plan.”

Warren pivoted, confused. “Party?”

“Yeah!” He cackled, “she’s one in a fuckin’ _week.”_

“John, I don’t think—”

Warren was silenced as the front door slammed shut.

That siren did come later.


	37. Spoken, On A Cotton Cloud

How he awoke in that foreign, icy bed was beyond him. 

He should have felt warm, have that body rolling in beside him to comfort and soothe him: to smooth out his dampened curls and silence that liquor loose mouth. With his mouth. 

John was banging on the door, stopping for swig after swig, in some strange rhythm that neither man could recognise. He was early, or was he too late? John didn’t know, he didn’t think and didn’t want to think. After much hassle, screaming and yanking on the frozen door knob to be swept inside; the door swung open and sent him crashing to the floor with a grunt.

He was a mess. But when wasn’t he? The tell tale signs of a rumpled half in, half out shirt, hastily swung on jacket that was hanging off of his shoulder, a bucket of grease having been ‘thrown’ onto his hair… he staggered up to standing, abandoning the bottle.

He apologised. He got it over quick, fumbling with his tongue but he did it. They hugged. He apologised. They hugged again. He held his hand and kissed those trembling fingers.

But had he really done anything wrong this time? Before drowning his sudden sorrows in vodka and dulling them in crack? No, he didn’t think so.

He took him up on his offer without hesitation: to sleep their remaining few hours off separate; down the hallway at the end of the apartment. With a sleeping Barbarella between them.

Simon didn’t seem to think he was wrong, either.

  
They had endless things they needed to discuss and soon... just not this weekend. John wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he ruined it any further.

***  
  


“If ya take a dump in this thing, I won’t be too chuffed!” He chuckled, pointing to the confused yet chirpy baby in his arms. “So keep it, in ya butt!”

There was a small croak.

“Don’t worry, Mummy will keep it in his butt too, you’ll be fine!” 

Together they slipped in to the soak, the water was tame and lapping lightly at his ankles. He lowered Barbarella down with surprising grace; smiling softly as her hands starting whacking the side of his black marble tub. The water was teeming with floaty things and chewy things; bubbles and a sweet smell of whatever the hell peonies were. He was missing his candles, his ashtray. John just couldn’t quite keep himself away.

He figured that yeah, it probably was considered a light form of child abuse but to hell with it: bath time was her new favourite time, so he’d be a part of it.

Sinking further down into the soak, barely covered, John clapped his hands to get her attention; before shuffling on his butt to clasp her teeny midsection and the rubber duck in her hand.

“All night parties, cock-tail bars and smiiiiiiiiiiles!”

Barbarella squeaked in approval.

“When the butterfly escapes, that’s you baby, Mummy’s killin’ ja-ah!”

Carefully, using two tender and totally not completely destroyed by his bass – no matter what Nick may have said in rebuff — he smoothed a small dollop of baby friendly bath cream onto his palms and began to massage it into Barbarella shimmying body. 

“Wise or naked in, this little bath-tu-ub!” He poorly sang, stretching the words out.

  
She squealed again, as did the duck, as John smeared the cream over her shoulders and back. The child wouldn’t relax, as such, but John couldn’t stifle his grin as her babbling hitched up a notch and she pelted the waves around her; full of wonder.

“Sure eyes awake before the dan-cin’ is ov-ah!” 

John caught her teeny hands in his finger tips, together they began to rock side to side, swishing the bath water, in time with his beat. Barbarella giggled merrily, breathing her Mummy’s rhythm and helping him to write the score.

“Wise or naked i-in _Secret Oktober_.” John’s voice began to dull, as he slumped down to wrap his skin around the silky smooth one of his bouncing baby, who shimmied and twisted with excitement. 

“ _Secret Oktober-er-uh_.”

John planted a kiss on her neck, moist lips tickling the bubbles that coated her little frame. He hoisted her up and turned her, she kicked and splashed eagerly: aiming somehow for the mullet that he had miraculously kept dry so far.

“Oh, is that how you want to play it, huh? Huh?!” He giggled, placing her back down so Barbarella was frolicking about in the water again.

Needless to say, John really underestimated her at times. How such a tiny person could have a vigour, enough energy and persistence to thoroughly soak him and have the water overflow at the side of the tub was beyond him.

“Alright, _alright_ Barbie! Gor, you win!” John was laughing, brushing bubbles away from his face to smear them around Barbarella’s stomach instead. She watched him do so, eyes wide and she was smiling, wondering what he would do next. 

To hell with it, John figured, he’d be quick at sorting his mullet out. As fast as one with a mullet of his extravagance could be. 

Barbarella was still kicking and screaming, determined to flood the bathroom one way or another. When she played, John played. Hard. He was laughing himself hoarse, with a couple red blotches forming on his cheeks and the odd hiccup sounding from him. They splashed about a while, droplets raining down all around them as the door swung open and—

_Shit_.

“You had one, sweet mother—” John poorly stifled a laugh as Simon slipped, “one job, Johnny. Why are you in there with her?”

“Imma get soaked if I stay on the side, so why not?” John exclaimed, with a knowing look painting his face.

Simon rolled his light blue eyes. “She’s going to get all wrinkly!” He pointed, John scoffed.

“Uh, same!” 

With another roll of light blue eyes, nice and warm, John refrained from laughing as Simon skidded his way past the slippery tiles before practically crashing into the tub before him.

“Don’t, don’t John!” Simon was laughing whilst being pelted too, John cackled at the precious sound of defeat. “Next time, tell me when you’re gonna do this. I want to be here.”

“You’d do me in the tub, really?”

“What, no!” John pouted, “we are far too tall for that. You’d have a face full of tap.”

Laughing, John conceded his point. 

Laughing harder, John watched as Simon clambered to his feet; before slipping again and landing right back where he was. “Goddamnit!”

John clambered over the side of the bath, beckoning him back over with a sly look and the crook of one finger. They both glanced to Barbarella, who was lost in her world of bubbles, trying to build a bubble castle, so Simon swept down to kiss him. Nice and quick, John’s moist lips brushing Simon’s in a swift show of affection; before either man felt something deeper begin to stir, down south, and they really would wind up in the tub together. Barbarella forgotten and likely squished.

Pulling away, Simon clutched a towel. He was smiling, John felt his heart clench as the singer babbled softly to Barbarella; hoisting her up and wrapping her in his arms. She held out her tiny arms, Simon enveloped her in a tight hug, not at all bothered by how wet she may or may not have been by that point.

With Barbarella covered in her favourite bear towel, hood covering her head and the left bear ear now smushed into Simon’s neck; John coughed as together they swung around to face him.

John pouted, leaning over, brandishing his puppy dog eyes and batting his lashes. He smirked inwardly as Simon’s smile grew naughty, a devilish glint in his eye. John held out his arms the way his daughter had, refusing to take no for an answer.

“Clean up this floor. Let’s get her to bed, she’s got a _very_ big day tomorrow, then,” there was pause, John nearly choked on his tongue, “I could use a shower.”

His gaze widened, John was biting into his lip. 

“Care to join,” he let it linger, dangerously, “me, Mummy? Mummy Johnny?”

John giggled. He loved how that sounded, when Simon stretched out the name and teased him with it. It made John feel as though he had truly deserved it.

_Tigger to Mummy, wow._

Simon deftly avoided the splashes and suds that littered the bathroom floor on his way out. John, however graceful he may have wanted to be, practically fell face first to the floor: limbs suddenly a little too loose.

Another hour and John was braced against the shower wall, hands clutching and losing purchase as the fog and steam swirled around them, muting his grunts and cries, emphasising the squeak of their kisses and hands running hot over damp skin.


	38. Does The Body You Conceal

Standing before his quivering self, having already thrown up the bulk of his nerves that morning; John hunched down to fumble with his tie. Two frustrated grumbles and a whine later, there was a small pressure at his back, leaning in with talented hands roaming. Without word, those teasing digits crept up and up to settle around his shoulders; those teasing lips pressed into his neck and he was falling; falling victim to that lipstick cherry as it coated his lens. 

  
“You’re,” he giggled, cutting himself off, “wearin’ _lipstick?!_ ”

There was another small giggle from behind, another teasing hand running itself through his freshly washed hair. 

  
“Fuck, Charlie, it’s been a while! Like I’ve gone back in time a little bit!”

“Baby wants what she wants.” Was his answer. 

“Shit, should I?”

Another pause, John twisted so now they were face to face. 

“If you want, babe, then why not?”

  
“Gettin’ all no-no- _nostalgic_ on me?” 

“Maybe?” Simon winked, John felt his heart swell.

  
“Do we have time?” He became frantic, eyes narrowing in sorrow. “Get Nicky in here, pronto.”

He was met by a gorgeous, overly white and fresh smile, over lined in a subtle nude tinge. John couldn’t hell himself, perhaps they could make it a _New Religion_ of sorts, Simon’s unavoidable and prominent lips became even more a unavoidable and prominent with that shine. Giggling, John’s lips were claimed and he chuckled softly into the kiss. He leant forward, bending slightly to reach the right angle, running his hand through thick blonde spikes before settling on his neck.

  
“Break away, with the best of both worlds—”

“— A smile that you can’t dis-gi- _ize!_ ”

“Shut up John.”

Biting his lip, stifling a groan, “yes… _sir_.” He teased, feeling the triumph of Simon’s eyes momentarily flashing in amazement. 

  
_Or turned on-ness._

He may or may not have noticed that he had been clutching a very specific finger that felt ever so bare.

_Turned on indeed-ness._

Simon slipped out and Nick slipped in, his hands practically gravitating to John’s puffy cheeks that were screaming how pale and in need of a touch up they were. 

Without having to say a word, he was led back to his bedroom, bracing himself by the dressing table, he pulled out the stool and sat himself down. John blinked rapidly as the lights were switched on, the types you’d get in fancy dressing rooms, with bulbs all around the mirror. It made him feel like a star, staring at his bare face waiting anxiously to see what the controller would do for him.

“Hold still now.” The voice was rich, coating with a love and affection that had him relax; becoming putty in those cream hands.

His blemished skin was caressed with a smooth liquid, being massaged into his cheeks and dabbed lightly across his eyelids. He kept them closed, eyes moving slightly in their sockets as he felt the small ministrations before reaching his temples. He moaned softly then, feeling the stress begin to bleed away, lips parting as his skin was dusted in a fine powder. He groaned, it was small and throaty, leaning into that hot touch. 

Two loving hands cupped his face, angling him upwards. He kept his eyes closed; lolling side to side in the firm and familiar grip.

He pried his gaze open, lashes fanning, as they were coated black; crumbling lightly atop his cheeks. He giggled, swiping the fallout away. Nodding, he handed over the eyeliner pencil; for old times sake. He was smiling into that touch, as the pencil was lovingly swept around his chocolate browns; making them pop behind the glasses that were no more. 

“Shall I?”

In a single sharp breath, “please.”

He heard the low chuckle from above, he ground his jaw into that grip again as the feathery brush dusted his cheeks in a subtle ruby glow. The apples sparkled, contrasting the darker plane painted first by the contour. Without encouragement, he parted his lips.

“Come up and see me, Nick, _Make Me Smile_.” John uttered, as the gloss was swept across his adorable lips and painted his little overbite with its glimmering sheen.

He may or may not have noticed that he had been clutching a very specific finger that felt ever so bare.

“There, Nigel, take a look.”

Smile lighting up his face, John focused his gaze on himself: now gleaming in the mirror before him. As always, Nick’s helping hand had smoothed out his complexion by sweeping away all the tiredness in his eyes and the frown lines. Nick airbrushed him, both in the literal and figurative sense. John couldn’t help but feel like a new man, every time his big brother’s soft hands worked their magic on him. He felt transformed, silently thanking his fairy god mother for paving his way to the ball.

Being helped to standing, the keyboardist turned him to face the wardrobe. John awaited him to again work his magic, it had gone without saying that he was incredibly nervous and unsure of himself today. Nick’s small actions of selflessness, his affection, made John feel like a million dollars on the days where he needed him the most.

He simply held out a hand, letting Nick dive into John’s wardrobe to find him the right suit jacket.

“Come up and see _me_ , John. _Make Me Smile_.” A strong, luxurious vocal with a slight accent dropped: making John both spin and sweat.

He gasped, “you made it!”

John whirled himself around, beckoning the supermodel over to him, who had his stomach in knots (in the best way) with her mere presence at his back. Her warmth, her familiar glow.

“Ren!” He was elated, she made it just in time. He kissed her quick on the cheek, before grinning like a loon as Barbarella began to stir in her sure grip. _She really is wonderful with children_. “I’m so happy you’re here! I thought you were in Paris another week?”

Her beautiful, bright smile painted her smooth skin. “I wouldn’t miss this, John, for the world. Oh, look at that, looks like somebody has missed you,” her tone was light, fond, nodding to Barbarella who was rubbing at her tired eyes.

She yawned, John’s smile grew wider.

“Let’s get you dressed, baby. Shall Auntie Renée help us?”

“John, you go find Simon, check on the cake and get the last of the presents from storage, I’ll change her.” 

John could’ve cried at Nick’s words, but he didn’t dare to mess up his makeup.

“It suits you,” the supermodel held out a deft hand; motioning to the colour in John’s face. “You should wear makeup more often, subtle, like you used too.”

He may or may not have noticed that he had been clutching a very specific finger that felt ever so bare.

Nick had chosen one of John’s latest editions: a luxurious long line teal jacket, with rich golden swirls and fringe across the shoulder pads. John was saving it for their next tour and it would surely photograph well. Unfortunately it was still a little too tight on him and he wanted to lose more baby weight but – seeing that soft smile from his best friend, the look of encouragement in his eyes saw John nodding as he slipped into the jacket, with a soft moan.

“What do ya think?” He always felt a little stupid when asking a supermodel about his wardrobe as their opinion really did. matter. It was the territory after all. “You like it?”

Renée simply took a step closer, helping him to ruffle his hair; smooth out the shoulders and fluff up the collar. 

“Tie?” She pointed, already loosening his top button. “Nick,” she pivoted him, “without the tie?”

Nick smiled. Renée whipped it off him. 

“Much better, _perfection_ ,” she agreed, her slight accent flowing soft through John’s ears. 

She handed him Barbarella, who was now wide awake and gaping at him. She was smiling, giggling, as John bought her in for a hug. Sitting beside Nick on the silken bed sheets, John raised his daughter higher and higher before his dopey smile so she was flying; soaring into the biggest day (so far) of her little, sacred life.

“Come on baby, say mumma, _mum_ -ma!”

Silence.

  
“Mum-ma?”

More silence.

“Someday, she’ll get it.”

With a chuckle, Nick pitched in: “sure she will, don’t lose hope Nigel.”

“Say Nigel, Ni-gel!” Renée perked up, chuckling soft in John’s ear.

“Hey, wait a min—”

He was silenced by Renée’s rhythmical laugh, “Ni-gel, _Ni_ -gel!”

“Not you too!” He giggled into the supermodels neck, leaving a little ruby stain there. 

“ _Nigel!_ ” She repeated, nudging him eagerly.

“John! You’re evil, Ren.” The bassist insisted. “C’mon, say _John_.”

Silence.

“Goddamnit!”

Sensing his baby brother’s defeat, “maybe she’s just a ‘late developa’ Nigel. Much like her mummy.”

John’s mind momentarily flung itself back a few years to him saying those exact words. About _playing_ with his instrument... 

  
“Make sure I don’t drink tonight, mmkay? I wanna remember this. All of this.”

“Good Lord, can I get that in writing?”

“Uh, same!” Renée laughed, slapping his knee.

“Oh hush.” John cackled.

**DAY: JULY 13**

**TODAY IS: THE DAY ROCK AND ROLL CHANGES—** _no no, been there. Done that._

“Happy First Birthday, beautiful,” it rolled so sweetly off of John’s lips, he didn’t miss the swift touch of Renée finger tip, brush his tear away. “I _love_ you, so much, Barbie.”

John planted a single kiss on her tiny nose, letting Nick and Renée wrap their supportive arms around him. He leant willingly into their embrace, Barbarella really was soaring with him. With Renée a step to the left and Nick a flick to the right, Simon way out west; there wasn’t a chance in hell he was messing up this day. For Barbarella, or for himself.

“Say mumma, mum-ma!” John repeated, clutching her at arms length.

  
“Here we go ag— wait!” Nick stopped himself, as teeny lips parted and all three adults gaped, awaiting anxiously what she had to say.

“… na... na...”

“Yes, Barbie, come on! Ma, ma…”

“Ni… na.”

“Ni-gel, Barbie, Barbie say.. Nigel!”

“No.. na,” she repeated, confused.

“Once more,” together John, Nick and Renée recited, “ _Ni_ -gel.”

“Nm, ni, Ni-juul.”

“What the hell?!” The bassist’s eyes widened comically, his friends were in hysterics at his side. John didn’t care, how could he be mad? She was talking, she was finally talking!

“Ni-jul!” She squeaked again, clapping like Unkie Nick was.

_The damn parrot! Really kiddo?!_

“Next thing she’ll say is _Notorious_.” The keyboardist joked.

  
“No - no...” 

Barbarella stared at him, blank.  
  


“That’s a tall ask for a one year old, Nick.”

“Ni-jul!”

_Boy, was she a Brummie alright._

John did cry then. It didn’t seem to bother Nick one bit, swapping his mascara for one that was waterproof. He may or may not have noticed that he had been clutching a very specific finger that felt ever so bare.

  
***  
  


The party was in full swing. John wanted it small, only for the immediate family and the closest of close friends. He scanned his apartment, chock full of people who really meant the world to him, with a grin.

His eyes fleeted to Simon, he seemed to constantly be searching for his man whilst he scraped his fingernails up his bare arm. Either Simon or Barbarella, Simon or Barbarella. Both of whom had claimed a corner as Simon’s mother, Ann-Marie, held her grand daughter in her arms. Simon appeared as though ten years had been shaved off of him; John could tell that he was so relaxed, face placid and open – even if he was pulling stupid face after face to make Barbarella laugh in Granny Le Bon’s neck. John smiled softly, watching as Simon stood beside his father. Sometimes, even with the frosted tips, he really did resemble his father with his expressions – John. 

John wished, that _he_ was the John by Simon’s side and chuckled softly at the thought. Although he felt the pressure of being with the in-laws, so to speak. He wished Simon’s brothers could have made it, _perhaps a trip to see them both was in store soon?_

His eyes trailed over to Nick (who was wearing his counterpart to John’s teal and swirly jacket: in a baby blue with white accents) and Julie Anne, who was wrapped in a half hug with a face full of Nick’s tassels. The poor model looked as though she was ready to burst even though she had another five-ish weeks to go. Yet she was still dazzling – _when wasn’t she?_ – having managed to make John’s ‘maternity’ half shirt half blinds outfit combo (that could rival his _Sing Blue Silver_ stripy silken monstrosity for being an even bigger stripy silken monstrosity) so damn well. They were chatting with Renée, he felt his heart swell knowing that Nick liked her the way he did. 

John’s parents were on the sofa, Jean and Jacko, hand in hand. They too were addressing Renée; John could recognise her pleased giggle a mile away. He was delighted to see them taking a liking to his new supermodel bestie, she even dazzled them by throwing in a few Danish words.

  
Then came the bar, he rolled his eyes with a laugh, upon catching Yasmin’s eye. She stuck her tongue out, wrapping an arm around Warren. _Warren_. 

_There he is, the handsome mother fucker._

John cocked his head, now pouting. Yasmin was whispering something, something unbelievably funny and somehow against him, he was sure, in the guitarist’s ear. She pointed in John’s direction and John, goddamnit, _flushed_ as Warren turned his way with a million dollar smile. Sensing his own nerves at simply having been addressed, John cocked a brow and crooked a finger: beckoning the guitarist over to hide his own bout of insecurity. Warren held a plastic cup, strutting to John who was perched by the doorframe.

  
John gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Totally cool.

“You okay?” 

John coughed, “yeah, yeah man. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my baby’s birthday.” He recited.

“You don’t look it, though. Want a drink?” Warren waved his cup, John shook his head. “ _Really?_ Well that’s new, can I get that head movement in writing?!” He sounded astonished, John lightly smacked him on the arm.

“Yeah, you ass!” He didn’t know why he was defending himself, as such. “I wanna, you know, uh—”

“— Lay of the sauce and _remember_ this night?” 

John nodded, solemn.

Together the two guitarists watched the party, the light chatter and buzz filling the grand space in between the bunting. John’s gaze caught their backing singers and new drummer, drinking merrily in the far corner. He was distracted, not quite swept away by the buzz and, his stomach churned, he couldn’t tell why.

“John, John what is it, man? You look like you’re either gonna bolt or turn green.”

John cast a shaky glance to Simon, decked out in a ravishing black boxy jacket with white tassels all down the sleeves, who had at some point gravitated with Barbarella to his parents on the sofa. His front man handed their bouncing baby over to her Mamma Taylor, with a small and excitable squeal.   
  


“She called me Nigel today, it was her first word you know?” He spoke, finding his suede boots suddenly very interesting.

  
“Surpised that it wasn’t ‘you know.’ You say that an awful lot, mate... the hell’s Nigel?”

The bassist just gaped at him.

“Oh, you _didn’t_ know?” John winked, stifling a laugh.

“Touché.”

“Me; it’s my first name. Thought you knew that already?”

Warren waved him off, “maybe I did, maybe I don’t. I dunno. Probably.”

“Surely we’ve spoken about that before, ain’t we?”

“Probably. You got rid off it because of that _Monty Python_ shit, right? ‘Great Twit’ of the somethin’ or other?”

  
  
John lowered his voice, pulling Warren in closer. “I wouldn’t have gotten nowhere by callin’ meself Nigel, you know that? You know the game.”

“Maybe callin’ _ye_ -self Nigel wouldn’ta been a bad thing? It’s got character, that ole English charm that isn’t you for shit, if you ask me.” 

“You what?” John laughed. “Character?! You think little ole Nigel has... _character?_ ”

“More so than John, yeah.”

“Again, touché.”

After a swig, “that’s great though Johnny, _Nigel_ \- holy shit that’s hilarious, it really is. Next up, have her try to say Charlie!”

John smiled softly at that but Warren knew, as if the bassist was broadcasting it from the _BT_ Tower back in Brum; that something was off.

  
“Don’t call me that again.”

“You got it, Nige.”

“Or that... you poofter!”

“Poofter yourself. Forgive me for bringin’ the mood down, though you’re doing quite a job on that yourself JT but… Christ. You miss ‘em, don’t you?”

“Hmm?” John dropped his gaze again, cursing Warren and his forward nature, “miss who?”

“Don’t bullshit me, John.” Warren’s voice was oddly soft, despite his words. “You know exactly who I mean. Both of ‘em, your little clan of Ta—”

“—My _clan_ are right before me, on me sofa. They… they w-won’t leave me.” John stumbled over his words, finger flailing towards the hoard of Durans who now occupied the space before them. 

“On _ye_ sofa... Why don’t you just call them?”

John snarled. “One’s in LA, the other Italy. I fuckin’ tried that, alright.”

John grabbed his hand, trying to shake the thought of ‘both of ‘em’ out of his mind. But found, shaking his head, that he just couldn’t. “Come.”  
  


_How could I?_

He nodded to Simon, stating simply, “ _hold_ me.”

_Why could I?_

John bit his lip as Simon rose to his feet, not only the singer’s worrisome eyes were on his quaking form. John didn’t know when his body started trembling, head always a beat behind, nor did he understand why his heart was cracking and more importantly: why Simon wrapped tight to his frame _wasn’t_ helping to stop the tears from forming.

“Bedroom, now.” Warren stated, nudging Simon.

“Baby, what is it?”

_Why are you all staring at me?!_

The whole room had come to a standstill, it seemed, all eyes were on John and were open; transfixed on the shivering bolt of blue in dire need of his silver.

_Stop staring, for Christ’s sake!_

“I think.. I’m.. shit,” John swept the head of sweat from his brow, “think I’m… gon be sick!” 

  
He was out of there faster than either Duran could say ‘ _EMI_.’


	39. Need The Touch Of Someone’s Hand?

John kicked the toilet as he flushed it a final time, somewhat sure that he had nothing left in his stomach to void. He promised himself that he wouldn’t use any, not today, not tonight… but, well, his will had caved long ago.

His hand shot into his teal jacket pocket, fumbling for the small bag he knew wasn’t buried too far inside. John ignored all the knocks on the door, all the voices asking him to open up and to simply talk. They sounded again, it was Nick and Julie Anne this time, as he dabbled with the contents of his prized bag and licked them up.

“John? Come on baby, please _talk_ to me!” Simon knocked a little later, sounding like the so-called ‘four on the floor’ from _Planet Earth_ ,“we’ve talked about this, you said you wouldn’t shut me out again even if it’ll hurt me to hear… baby?”

  
John tried to answer.

“Don’t save it till the morning after.”

His heart stopped beating for a moment, he was sure.

“Charlie, I.” He coughed, cursing for having spoken in the first place. One more lick and he was up, twitching but he was moving so he counted that as a win. 

“Johnny, please, what’s wrong?”

He was faced by: Simon, Nick, Warren and his mother had a hand on Simon’s shoulder. He felt his heart swell at that and stomach do a flip. He was touched, he assumed, fidgeting with a certain finger on a certain hand that was cast red raw; having been sliced open by his constant scratching.

“Mum, I need… my Mummy.” He felt a great shame in speaking, eyes on Jean as she entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Shutting out the crowd.

“Dear, what is the meaning of all... oh,” her vocal grew silent; her son had latched himself around her, crying with uneven pants into her neck.   
  


“What’s, Mum...” he sniffed, pulling away for a breath, “what’s _wrong_ with me?”

“You’re overwhelmed.”

“Over,” he sniffed, “overwhelmed?”

“Over worked.” Jean wrinkled her nose, pushing her glasses up. Her voice was small, stabilising but small. “The album? Recording? Simon, you and Simon? Nick? The lack of sleep? Not eating enough? John, dear, look at yourself. You’re shivering.”

_John? Did she call me—_

“No, please call me… uh.”

“Yes, son?”

John swallowed the lump in his throat, trying not to choke. He needed his mother, he didn’t need _John_ getting in his way.

“ _Nigel_.” He let out in a huff. “I don’t wanna be you know who right now, round you.”

He tried to ignore the brim of tears forming behind those infamous cat eye frames, how his mother had straightened up. Her lips couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown. Her brows had furrowed, her grip on him beginning to falter. John smushed his face in her neck again, a silent plea, determined to let out whatever it was that he needed too.

“Okay, be Nigel.”

He shivered, upon hearing her use his given name. The way it should still be.

“I don’t know where to begin. There’s.. shit, Mummy, there’s just… So. Much. Happening.”

“Take all the time you need, darling.”

He sniffled, wiping his snot on his sleeve, before she brandished a tissue from her sleeve. She handed it to him, the way she had for years. Always one step ahead: still being able to read her son like an open book.

“The medication, that might be a good place to start?”

“Christ, which ones?!” He shivered.

“We aren’t talking about the heat tablets, are we Jo— _Nigel_.” She corrected himself, John’s stomach flipped. “What else are you on?” Her voice sounded pained, strained and pained.

He didn’t answer, only assumed that she could guess. And guess wrong.

“Maybe you should see a doctor, if all the… ahem, _stress_ ,” John cursed inwardly, she knew exactly what he was on and was lying through her teeth for his benefit, “is weighing you down so heavily. Son, it pains me to see you like this. Fighting so hard, fighting for you and Simon.”

Soft and open hand in quivering and abused by strings hand, together they began to slump (his mother was graceful, as always) down the wall of the master bathroom; as far from the toilet as they could get. John lay a heavy head on his mother’s shoulder, as she massaged his fingers and muttered softly.

“What is it really, Nigel?” The name felt odd, even to him. “You know you can tell me anything. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  
_What do you care?_

John gasped, feeling anything but cornered in the warm embrace. 

  
_What do you dare?_

“Please son, don’t shut myself or Simon out. Say what it is, I can take it, what’s bothering you?” 

  
_What does your heart say now?_

He clambered back to seated, splaying himself out before Jean. Their eyes locked, both gentle and fond. John let rip. It didn’t matter about what, Jean clutched him tighter and tighter as his shaky words filled the small space between them.

_What does my heart say now?_

“Can you get Dad?”

Jean looked surprised, but for only a second. A swift nod and she rose to standing, returning a couple moments later hand in hand with her husband.

“Lets have this conversation in the bedroom, huh son?” His father, Jack, held out a palm.

It felt very strange, colder than maybe it ought to be, but John took it.

  
“Take all the time you need, Nigel.”   
  


“Thank, ahem, thank you Mum.” He smiled, though it was only small. “Okay, I, uh...”

The Taylor family emerged from John’s bedroom about an hour and a half later, Simon practically threw himself into John’s arms. He was whispering to him but John couldn’t hear, his attention stayed on his mother’s silhouette as she began to fade, smiling to him. 

Simon pulled away; it was evident that John hadn’t heard a word. The singer simply wrapped a hand in his, guiding John to the hoard of presents and little ray of sunshine who was lost in the midst of them. Clutching tight to Auntie Yas, she and Auntie Renée paved way for Simon and John to sit before Barbarella; eager to open her gifts. John rose to his knees, fingers trembling on the first box he pushed his daughter’s way.

“Don’t you want to hold her, John?” Yasmin’s voice was light, gaze softening on his form.

  
He coughed out a ‘sure’, holding his hands out for Barbarella to clamber into. She crawled, giggling softly, drawn to the golden accents dusting John’s form and the jingle of the black bangles that he was still wearing, - _they have to go before the album cover shots, stop thinking about work_ \- for her and only her. Together they began to devour the pile of gifts, wrapping paper and bows littered the floor, shining. 

“Can we have a song, Charlie?” Yasmin winked, pulling a guitar from virtually out of nowhere. 

John straightened up, holding a hand out on reflex. Yasmin didn’t take it. She only wrapped the strap around herself, lining up her fingertips and searching for her chord. John was puzzled, shrugging slightly, Warren could’ve easily taken the reigns here.

“Of course.” Simon cleared his throat, nodding to John.

To John’s surprise, Yasmin was a natural. She and Simon harmonised right away, he could tell that it was rehearsed but not in the forced sense to be perfect and to get the job done. It was that natural chemistry they had, feeding off of each other, feeling comfortable with each other’s spirit.

_It was a Scorpio thing_ , he was sure.

John was sure that he would become another puddle of emotion, heart ache, love and desire within moments. Sending his senses, streaming free.

_Stupid, talented, gorgeous Scorpios._

Simon’s wonderful voice began to flow, the light strum from before him told John that it was _Like An Angel,_ Barbie’s song. Granted she had so many songs now, a playlist forming on her own accord, that were perfectly her. But the ones that were written and recorded long before her arrival, long before finding out he would become a parent; somehow meant even more to him.

It was like Simon had just known. Sometimes, maybe, John confirmed it himself: that he really did know. 

John’s eyes were wide, so wide. His heart was beating even faster now, knowing exactly what Simon meant. He took his place, gleaming like rivers, giving the two of them the reason to believe: holding tight to Simon’s hand, he knew he _would_ feel like this again.

Flying so high, with Barbarella in his grip, how could he, Simon and their growing family ever fall.

Barbarella loved her cake, shaped into a lion’s head the way she and Leonard (John did a little reverse psychology there, confused) would have wanted. She spent longer playing with the wrapping paper, much to John’s amusement, than any of her new toys. Or ‘driving’ the baby ready _Mercedes_. She was chatting away with everyone from Mamma Taylor to Unkie Nick, with fervour; determined to be heard. Even Nigel the parrot, not the twenty six year old man who had cried mere hours earlier in his mother’s strong grip over everything, came out to play: squawking endlessly at Barbarella who his bestest friend.

Nick willingly took as many photos as he could, even managing to film a little special something. Simon had come up with the idea a couple weeks ago. A video message, something not too short but sweet, to play to her many years from now in the year 2003: her eighteenth birthday. It had to be embarrassing, of course, yet full of love and happiness. So both John and Simon could look back on this day, this momentous occasion, with love and fond memories. So John could look back on this day, without a single worry of how he may have spoiled it.

If it’s any consolation, LA and Italy were the furthest things from his mind in that moment. With Simon singing softly, _The Seventh Stranger_ this time, and Barbarella giggling merrily; John was reminded that he couldn’t fall.

***  
  


### Chapter Text

The last of the squad fizzled out around 23:00, long after the birthday girl had bid them goodnight. Miraculously, John kept to his word, he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol the whole night. Neither had Simon, he thought. John gifted himself the memory of this day, this night. The night was still young, he reminded himself and Simon was staying put to help him clean up. 

Flashing him a smile, bin bag in hand, John read his mind and together they dropped what they were holding: having mutually decided that enough is enough; they’d clean up tomorrow.

John was on all fours, licking his lips in a meticulous fashion. He began to crawl; slow with a minx in his eyes, deftly avoiding the trash around him for Simon. Simon, who too was on his knees, ready to pounce and meet him by the coffee table.

**_When you want me, give me a sign._ **

His eyes, they were dark. Predatory. Lustful. His grip, it was rough. His lips, they were moist. Dropped open.

Dangerous. 

John was his prey and Simon was hungry, hungrier than the wolf could ever be.

**_You feel my heat, I’m just a moment behind._ **

Their bodies met, John was giggling before it turned into a low growl; throwing himself into his captive’s arms, gnawing and clawing his way through Simon’s clothing: rolling about on the floor; rutting up against the rough carpet. John was pinned, with a hiss, his neck devoured with a whine. A howl and a whine, he felt as though he was drunk on juice like it was wine. 

“Bed? Or here.” Simon barked, before plunging to nip at his neck.

Groaning, back arching high up off the floor, “here. _Now._ ”

He’s on the hunt, he’s after John.

With a smirk, that same devilish glint, Simon took them on a roll: panting and moaning as clothes were shed and nails raked over needy skin. John was above him, yanking off his shirt. His hands were frantic, shaking, tearing at Simon’s belt and jeans; hurriedly shucking them off. With a sigh, John leant down, splaying his body out full, rutting forcefully against Simon’s cut hip.

He picked up his pace and Simon encouraged him, whining into John’s throat. John bucked harder, animalistic, hips slamming above of Simon who bucked back up into his grip. A few more thrusts and John was gone, whiting out and seeing stars; barely stifling his scream by biting at his arm. He was doused in sweat, dizzy and delirious, fumbling for Simon’s pulsing length in his boxers. Grabbing him, jacking him, he bought Simon off with his violent touch.

Chuckling, fighting for breath, John threw his head back, lost in a sea of teased mullet, as Simon stretched out atop of him in a huff. John caught his lips, nice and quick; running his fingertips up Simon’s bare chest. He moaned above him in appreciation, before the singer’s fingers plunged lower. And lower.

The tickle fight was on!

Simon’s fingers blurred the border between teasing and being a nuisance, they were raking all over John and John was practically convulsing in his grip. He kicked and hollered, trying to buck his front man off, with a rhythmical laugh although he was still seeing stars.

“Stop… Sim—ah!” John cackled, losing a winning battle. “Shit.. s- _stop_ I, I’m… agh Charlie!” 

Simon was ruthless, John was putty in his hands; coming undone (hiccuping and panting through it) and Simon’s fingers didn’t miss a beat. John couldn’t help himself, nether regions brushing up against each other, already beginning to stir against Simon.

John flipped them, pinning him.

  
That’s when time ceased to exist.


	40. Not On Your Own, So Help Me Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, we hit forty. We’re almost there. ❤️

Above Simon, John could study him. Over his own shaky breaths, hair falling into his face, he stared intently: Simon’s beady blue eyes were riddled with tears from laughing too hard. His lips had been bitten, from stealing kiss after randy kiss. There was an adorable blush upon his cheeks, glimmering in the low light. John truly hadn’t seen a sight so beautiful, swooping down towards him, to gently press their foreheads together and make sweet contact.

Groaning softly, chests rising and falling as one, John began to speak. He was nervous, mellow, bringing the two of them back down to Earth with the sincerity in his tone; the vulnerable tinge. 

“We need to talk, Simon.” John was still above him, shirtless and sweaty. “Please, luv.”

“Yeah,” Simon began to shift, “we do.”

Instead of helping Simon up to the sofa, John splayed his tired body out beside him on the floor, holding his head on one hand and keeping elevated best he could. His eyes didn’t leave Simon’s steely blues, determined to not let the contact falter and worry his front man more.

Simon licked his lips before he spoke, drawing John’s attention to the gloss that still coated them. “What’s on your mind? Don’t hold back.”

_The rain, right. Lesson learned._

“I, I uh— yeah, gor, where to begin?”

John lay silent for a moment, with the tell tale sign of his brain running a mile a minute and his tongue not being quite able to catch up.

“Simon, I…”

There really was a million things on his mind. He figured, gesturing to Simon and praying inwardly that he would use his mad telepathic skills to fish through John’s tiresome thoughts, Simon would initiate the conversation.

“I really.. oh, goddamnit.”

“Yeah, John?”

“Fuck it. The Rivers interview… luv I didn’t, I still don’t know what—”

“—Doesn’t matter, John, that got out of hand. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do but uh—”

“—I know your stance on commitment, the _lack_ thereof… and you know mine.” 

John gulped, that was salty, “as in?”

With a small groan, Simon disengaged their eye contact and John followed his gaze to land on Simon’s hands resting on his chest. Without thinking, or overthinking, John immediately plunged a hand down to wrap his shaky fingers around Simon’s own.

“Luv, I…”

He didn’t let go throughout the entire talk.

“Keep talking, Johnny, I’m here.”

“Do... y’know Simon, do you really think we could make this work?”

  
_Make what work? Idiot._

“For _Barbie,_ John. I know you’re no gambling man, at least not when sober but for our beloved it’s always worth it. I can’t bear being apart like this.”

_We’ve fucking gambled away a tonne, luv._

“Me neither,” John cried, bringing Simon’s hand closer to his lips to kiss his knuckles quick, “I.. I know I haven’t made it easy.”

  
_You bought a boat, for one._

“Christ, _easy_?”

  
_I had a child, for two._

“No, shut it! You know what I mean.”

“… That I do.”

“I know you have trust issues Charlie and I, fuck, I… I only—”

“— Further _instigate_ them?”

  
_There’s only three of us now. For three._

John didn’t miss the smirk in that voice, he nodded. “Wanker.”

“Shut up John!” The lightheartedness immediately fled his tone. “I need to know what you want. No games, no going back on your word as soon as the doubt settles in. We’ve been through so damn much and, Christ, don’t back down on us now.”

  
“On who, now?” He engulfed a shaky breath, Simon ploughed on.  
  


“ _Us_ John. You, me, the baby? Ringin’ any bells?”

John nodded.

“It’s always gonna be a risk, you never know what’s gonna happen. It’s like walking into the studio with the first cassette, the fear of whether they’ll even like it. If you’re lucky enough that they give you a listen. Whether anyone will see any potential in your sound, whether anyone would give you that chance. Sometimes, you’ve just got to take that step, let yourself _fall_.”

He had closed his eyes, John was raking in all that he could of that smooth voice: the hitches and hasty breaths.

“John, you need to tell me now. What do you want from me? _Now_. Not in five years from now, not for the rest of your life. Now, this moment. Not the band, don’t even think about _Notorious_. Or Nick, if ya can help it.”

John nodded along, wiping the slate clean as best as he could. 

With a whisper, an almost inaudible plea,“Don’t run from me, baby.”

He felt Simon begin to withdraw his hand, John chased him.

“I won’t, I’m done running,” John spoke, soft but determined.

“From?”

  
_Living In Fear._

John paused, stuttered. Tormenting word after word flashing across his head, ranging from _you_ to _drugs_ , to _responsibility_ , to _drugs_ , to _the band_ to _drugs_ … He didn’t know where to start. 

John really felt as though, hashing it out when suspended atop an upturned car would’ve been easier. His vices would simply display themselves before him, on screen. 

“Barbarella.” A stab in the dark.

Simon wouldn’t even drown this time.

“You.”

Simon was momentarily stunned, cocking his head. 

“And?”

“Uh... Crap.”

Thankfully, Simon answered for him.

“I’ve been telling you for years, you’ve got to start looking after yourself. It’s different when there is a _child_ involved. How many more times until you’ll _learn_ that bloody lesson?”

“I’m, you know, I’m a slow leaner... learn better by doing.” He admitted, small.

“How many times have I heard that?! How many _more_ times will I, yeah?”

John visibly shrunk back at that.

“But, I’ve.. Simon, I’ve been gettin’ b..b- _better_ , right?” His voice was hopeful, nodding enthusiastically.

“Better with what?”

“Controlling meself, putting Barbie first.”

“Although it _pains_ me to admit,” John perked up, awaiting his gold star sticker. “You have. Still flakey and fucked up in the he—”

“— I want _you_. Only you. That I’m sure of, fillin’ the void.” John shot back, desperately, suddenly remembering the point of this conversation.

“And what happens when you’ve gotta quench that thirst, huh? When you’re done with me and the band? Bored? Looking for someone new?”

“I— I dunno, sorry. It won’t, it _won’t!_ ”

“Save it. That’ll come next. Now, the drugs.”

“Drugs?” He parroted, weary. 

“Yeah, John, _drugs_.”

With a cough, a squawk from Nigel at his back, “what.. what ‘bout them, Charlie?”

“We’re gettin’ you off them, you’ve gotta cut down if you wanna see her turn two.”

“But I have and—”

“— _Save_ _it_. Barbie deserves it, the... fuck Johnny, she deserves the best damn start in her life and she needs a mother who’s gonna be there and be conscious in her bedroom when she’s bawling her eyes out at night!” Simon’s voice began to hitch, growing shaky.

  
John could tell that neither man liked where this was headed. Shrinking back, licking his bottom lip, he knew he had this coming, he was surprised Simon had managed to keep quiet for so long.

_Or had he kept quiet?_

“She needs you, John. I need you. I need a conscious bassist, with his lust for life back!”

_How many times has he tried with me?_

“Luv.”

“It’s not just for me, but for you. _Your_ health, _your_ wellbeing.”

“Charlie.”

“It’s never been healthy, you know that.”

“Simon.”

_How many times have I pushed him away, being the same selfish prick?_

“It’ll never not hurt seeing you this way.”

John dropped his gaze at that.

“Look, no one’s ever ready for a child. Don’t think I’m stupid, your usage spikes for the rave of the week then all of a sudden your ‘clean’ and ‘attentive’ the next week? It’s because of her, it’s the only coping mechanism you bloody know.”

John grew quiet. 

“Where’s the _consistency_ , baby? With the boys it was one thing. They could defend themselves and get out of your way before the shithouse went up in flames. But Barbie— fuck, she, John baby, she can’t... she _can’t_ do that!”   
  


John grew deathly quiet.

“Fuck, but _don’t_ come to me with it,” Simon mocked, stretching out the words to get him riled, “you haven’t been doing that for years so why would you start now? Suffering in silence, having a ball without any recollection of the consequences instead, huh?” His voice was hitching again, piercing a spear deeper into John’s heart.

He staggered his gait, John let out a shaky breath. “Don’t you dare talk about my health that way.”

Simon scoffed, rage simmering beneath the surface.

“I..” The bassist gulped, an immediate 180 of character, fighting back the tears, “I’m gonna... Simon, you know, need your help.”

_I need..._

“And now you suddenly _want_ it?!” Simon kept himself from screeching, controlled and consistent – the way John never could be.“What the fuck? That’s what it is, the way it’s _always_ been. You freakin’ numb every sense you’ve got in the hopes of getting through the night,” Simon spat, “I know you John. I know you won’t change.”

_Need_...

“I don’t wanna have to keep seeing it, putting an end to another bender or whatever crap you’re on.”

Sensing a losing battle, the dustcloud on the rise: “I wanna make this work, wanna show you what you mean to me.”

  
 _You_.

“You won’t change, John. I’m foolish enough thinking that I can even bloody _help_ you.” Simon sounded defeated, throwing up his hands.

John wasn’t ready to give up just yet.   
  


“You did ‘em too, way back when…” John’s answer was lame, unneeded.

“I’ll get on them again if it’ll teach you a damn lesson. See how you take it, as a parent. Alone.” A roll of blue eyes, flashing in their sockets, told John not to push any further there. 

“Please. Simon, just hear me out.”

Raising to seated, he bought Simon up with him to clamber up to the sofa. 

“I wanna.. I _do_ , I really _do_ want to live with you. I want.. fuck, I want Barbie to ‘ave us both in the same damn house at the same freaking time! And soon.”

_I want you to save me, once again._

“It’s hard enough on her, you scare me shitless sometimes; leaving her here. It really does.” 

  
_You’ll save me, you always do._

  
“How am I meant to keep an eye on you when you can’t do that yourself?” Simon scoffed.

“I know.” John’s voice was scratchy; this hurt. “I know it hurts you, I’ve always known.”

_You don’t have too but you do._

“Then why’d you give me reason to worry? It’s hard enough for her now, flipping between the two of us and my parents,” there was a pause, a lick of pouty lips, “imagine it on the road.”

  
_Because you’ll still love me, right?_

He hadn’t thought about that. He couldn’t have, he couldn’t think that far.

_To have and to hold?_

_Till death do us part?_

“How can we tour with this album, John? What about Nick’s baby?”

“What d’ya expect me to do about them then, now?”

Simon waved him off. “I don’t think touring is the way to go here, okay? Can’t rely on nannies and support forever, we owe it to the girls. All three of us and Jules.”

“I… you know, I...”

John began, stumbling over the rage though it lay dormant. Almost. Or was it shame? 

“Mother fucker, I did it! _Power Station_ did it! _You_ were there, _you_ helped me,” his voice began to tremble, recalling such a horrific couple of months up and down the US, wishing to be safe and sound with Barbarella for more than two nights on the trot. “You… Simon, _you_ helped me! You got me through it by simply being there for her!”

  
“Whatev—”

John silenced him with a flick of his bangles. “Thanks to _you_ I did it. Thanks to _you_ she’s still alive! Alright? It’s all you, always you.”

With a flick of his wrist, “That was then. A long time ago. It’s not just Barbie we’ll have to think about this time.”

“Can we argue on this some other time? Like, when there actually _is_ another baby to argue over?”

“Not long.”

“You’re damn right, not long.” Then, grating, blinking slowly, “what if we ‘ad another? Would ya still wanna put our careers— our _life_ on hold?”

“Fuck John, don’t do this to me now.”

“Charlie, I mean it.” John saw him snap. He saw that vein in his neck pop, the flash of warning in those icy blue eyes that froze his heart with a single stare.

“Crikey! Of course I fuckin’ would. Any child of mine would deserve it. Deserve us, all the time. The way it should be! It ain’t like a nine to five job, John, you know that. Touring is another matter all together. That little life is worth way more and you know that, no matter how many kids you’re _suddenly_ wanting to drop. Now, Christ John, please give your dreams a rest.”

  
The grunt told Simon, John was in agreement. 

“I’ve learnt to love your anger now, what’s the ruddy point of this shit?” John asked, keeping the tears at bay.

“Stop fucking snorting lines in her _bedroom!_ How can I even trust you on the road?!” Simon refrained from screaming, barely.

John was speechless. He was gaping at the enraged man before him, jaw slack and eyes wide. Like the little crackhead he was, in dire need of that sacred touch up.  
  


“I know where the stash is, you keep moving it and I’m sure you’re holding right now. I know you John, it pains me to know what you’re like.”

  
There was another shift, the silence growing deathly.

“Will I ever get through to you?” Simon spat, strained and on the verge of tears. John’s heart split then, his own tears pricking at his lids. “The longer this goes on, the harder it’s gonna be. For everyone involved.

John was staring at nothing, drawing blank after blank.

“We’re all victims here, John, we _all_ are. You hear me?”

On reflex, he fingered his inner jacket pocket: knowing that there was some in there. His beloved unmentionables, crumbling into a fine powder in his grip. 

“Give it to me. Right now.” 

John was well past sensing that warning siren. With a huff, too deep in the red, he simply fished out the lifeless bag and pushed it into Simon’s open palm. Simon tossed it onto the coffee table before them and John wondered, being tormented by his white salvation mere inches from his clammy hands, just why. Why it sat there. Why Simon didn’t hide it. Why he was hiding his beloved in plain sight.

“Where’s the rest, John? What’s in the house?” Simon didn’t even sound mad anymore, just tired of putting up with John and his shit. His selfishness and arrogance to let anyone, even his love, in.

Engulfing a shaky breath, then letting it out in a sharp huff: “behind the bath, in the toilet up top. Warren’s room, probs some is his own… yeah, he don’t do anything here but I know he has people.”

With a grunt, “anywhere else?”

John, full of shame, fingered beneath their very seat. He tossed a bag of tablets that he barely recognised himself, intent on calling them sleeping tablets.

“Christ, John!” Simon swiped the bag, rummaging through. “What is all this gobshite?”

John’s lips were sealed into a fine line. He shrugged.

_Some make you spin, some make you sweat. You remember?_

“ _Bollocks_ , what else is there or have you gone and cleaned out your weekly dope allowance?” The singer’s voice began to rise again, he was controlling himself and it was bordering on painful to watch.

_It’s all for me to choose them._

Although it infuriated him immensely, more than ready to scream the place down or storm right the hell out, John steadied his breathing; whacked the sofa cushion a couple of times before upping to his feet.

In a rage, a small rampage, he was tearing through the bathroom door; having practically fallen through. He shivered, it was much cooler than the thick air allowed to swell outside. He head straight for the toilet bowl, yanking off the top and fumbling with the bag of powdered courage that was surely still buried not too deep inside. Then again, lost inside amongst a loosened floor tile behind the black marble tub. There was cash stuffed inside too but that didn’t matter now.

He stormed back into the living room, tossing the two bags at Simon, one of crack, the other another set of tablets that the singer didn’t recognise. 

“Valium?”

“Guess again.” John hissed.

Simon didn’t bother to guess again.

“You said in Warren’s room. Leave him be, you’ll ransack the place first thing; as soon as he’s awake. He can fuckin’ help you, show me what his salary is _really_ paying for.”

John was more than surprised that he had just given in like this, throwing down what he had literally onto the table of shattered dreams before him and Simon. He was more than ready to watch Simon do his little _Hungry Like The Wolf_ table flip of life act, tossing John’s life forces and treading in the shards of glass that plunged deep into the carpet: painting them with John’s painfully ‘normal’ bloodstream.

Somehow, John fought to keep breathing an Simon, he could tell, was still fighting to control himself and to keep quiet.

“Just please, John,” his tone had grown tight, straining, “tell me… tell me that there is nothing and I mean nothing, in Barbarella’s room.” He was rubbing his temples, icy blue eyes having screwed themselves shut.

John wanted to blank the world out too.

“Of course there isn’t!” John flailed, hurt that he’d even dared to suggest it. “Why would I do that to her?”

“It’s not for her, it’s for you. You do it all to have _you_ , Mummy.” It was a snarl.

“Mu.. mummy?”  
  


At that, John didn’t know what hit him. Within moments he had collapsed, hit the ground hard and was clutching at the coffee table littered in his filth, thousands of pounds worth. The tears were streaming now, out of hatred and disgust: upon seeing what he really had.

  
The wake up call was long and overdue, he was worthless, helpless: a victim to his own self destruction and would never stop strapping Simon down for the pitiful ride of shame and self torture.

“Oh.. oh my god, Charlie!” His fingertips were shaking, he couldn’t stop them no matter how hard he tried. “What… what am I doing?!”

He needed to crash. He needed to let go. They hadn’t even gotten to the bottles yet, Simon knew there were plenty.

“You know John.” Simon’s voice dropped dangerously low, singling him out and demanding John pay full attention. “Without all of this, whatever this shite is, clogging up your system.” 

John breathed in, trembling violently, clutching aimlessly at the bags of his saviours. He didn’t dare to look Simon in the eye.   
  


“You could really _be_ somebody someday, if you were sober.”

John wailed, forgetting there were others knocked out nearby. He carried harder and harder, poorly stifling them as he flung his head up and pivoted harshly. He had nothing to say to that, no daft retaliation of bullshit to spew like it was his only hope. He only bawled harder, falling forward to clutch at Simon’s knee. 

  
“That’d be the day,” Simon flung his arms up in defeat. “You’d have me forever.”

Praying, certain to be shunned away from heaven’s door, that Simon didn’t push him away now. Even though he had every right too.

“John. Do you hear me?”

Silence.

“I’m sick of seeing it in your eyes.”

Prolonged, gut wrenching silence.

“I’m sick of knowing, thinking that you… that you’re gonna…”

“... _Kill_ myself.” On autopilot, John sobbed even harder, tears trailing down his cheeks and slicing his skin with their hot touch.

“That what you want? Why are you doing this to me, John? Because I’m in the room?”

The room grew silent, only John’s desperate pants could be heard.

  
“Baby, I said,” Simon screamed, pulling John up with him and forcing him to hear when he chose not to listen. “ _Is that what you fucking want?!_ ”

Now only Simon’s desperate pants, John’s pitiful choked off cries and the slight patter of bare feet could be heard.

He almost missed the third body, as it came to lay beside him. A tender hand reaching forward, grasping John’s string beaten hands in his own.

“You don’t have to tell me now, but I think I deserve to know in mornin.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_ , Warren, shit. Sorry we awoke you.”

John flung his head up then, shaking it, barking out another silent ‘no.’ He took one glance at their locked fingertips, chanced holding it for far too long; before he threw himself at the guitarist and clutched to his petite frame tighter.

“Blackmail, is the only deal a promise dealer sees. Heaven hide your eyes, they will never dry.” The singer spoke, a suddenly soft hand coming to land on John’s trembling shoulder. 

“They… they’ll _never_ dry…” John choked out, voice fading to nothing: unsure if he had even made a sound.

  
  


“You were so close Johnny, getting better. Trying hard to hide it, everything that you’re feeling.” Simon’s voice was low, tinged with something that John branded _heartfelt_ , daring to overstep that boundary.

“You can’t run forever. You don’t have forever.” A cold hand placed itself on his trembling shoulder blade, it didn’t massage or comfort him, just lay there: half dead. “You’re not invincible Johnny. None of us are, Barbie isn’t either. You won’t get this time back, you should know what that feels like better than any of us.”

John shrugged it off.

“Look at us, baby, look at me. I’m right here for you.. I, oh fuck,” John knew that finally, finally, Simon let a tear slip, let that pavement crack: sick of looking for reasons to crack. “I don’t.. don’t know why I’m here, why Nick is here, why.. why you...”

“Why _I’m_ still... here.” John finished for him, in a whisper, letting Simon take the meaning of that any which way he wanted too. “Still here. Breathing.”

It was well past 3AM, they mutually decided to turn in. John was shunned to his bedroom as Simon demanded he stay put with the bags of fifth displayed with disgrace before him, John knowing that the man wouldn’t be sleeping a wink in fear of him rushing in to take whatever he could get his mits on.

  
“And if.. ahem, _when_ the fire burns out, there’s.. there’s only _John_ to blame,” the bassist began, growing weary.

His vocal began to grow, getting higher and more sure of itself. Finding the beat, passing the blame, John continued: eyes never leaving the worry in Simon’s guise.

“No time for worry ‘cuz, we- _I’m_ on the roam, again. The clouds all scatter an’ we- _I_ ride the outside lane.”

Engulfing a breath, John startled as his front man took over; full of assurance and clarity.

“Not on your own so Johnny please, shut the fuck up and _Hold Back The Rain._ ”

Standing before his bedroom door, not having bothered to grab his clothes from their antics hours ago on the floor, John uttered “I’m sorry, Charlie, sorry Waz,” before slipping inside, determined not to slam the door. 

Throwing himself above the covers, asking if it really was the devil that he did play with, was _El Diablo_ really to blame, John lay helpless: a victim to his insomnia; deafened by the cries to be saved, to be craved, or what lay anticipating his hot touch outside.

He’d be kidding himself if he could define which unmentionable he meant. Simon or the cocaine. Simon or the cocaine.

Whimpering, hot tears beginning their dreaded flow: he recited Simon’s words, staring with dead eyes at the photographs that littered his bedside table. There sat polaroids from Drum, full of life and promise of better things to come — the _family_ photoshoot of a couple months back. If John closed his eyes, daring to pick one picture up, he could still breathe the life force that was the open air, the damp and the fresh sea breeze.

  
He hadn’t had any drugs in his system then, even though fear of stepping on such a mighty vessel had plagued his mind, he found as though he hadn’t needed them. That stimulant.

His words were simple, plaintive and strained. Exactly what he thought of himself, horrified at the notion of what would come if his horror would come to fruition:

“We know,” he began, wiping at his lids with force, “Major… a junkie. S-str..strung out in, in heaven.. in heaven.”

Staggering his breaths, he crashed back into the pillows, letting the polaroids torment him by simply being within arms reach.

  
He knows who his drug is, one he just won’t be able to quit.

“We know, Charlie, Major _John’s_ a junkie.”

_Simon_. Who could quit Simon?


	41. Please, Please Tell Me Now

The hours passed in a blur, riddled with tears, torn photographs and tossed sheets. John finally emerged from Warren’s room, sheepish, chewing on his bottom lip. He hadn’t felt right rummaging through whatever he may be holding, he’d ask the guitarist about it later; when the coast was clear. He then caught sight of Warren, feeding Barbarella at the island bar, who was babbling merrily to him in between chomps. John relaxed a notch, clearly she had slept well: had slept through the hell that was that morning.

Simon was stood beside them, dishing up something that smelt divine. Their eyes met, John visibly blanked as the bile rose in his throat and he forced to keep it down. _His eyes. Look into his eyes._ He chanced a glance to the sofas, to the coffee table that was now bare; save for the TV remote and a couple TV guides. A normal coffee table, dead centre, packed with normal things the way normal people had. _His eyes. Don’t look into his eyes._ He smiled ruefully, somewhat thankful.

“Eat up, John, you have to leave in an hour.” The voice was tight, dismissive.

_Oh right,_ he was reminded. He could really use a shower and a shave though. Pancakes could wait.

“John, come on; don’t let them get cold.”

  
He knew immediately what Simon was doing, avoiding the early morning row. He’d act as though nothing had happened and John would act as though he hadn’t been tearful and testy throughout the whole night; hadn’t thrashed himself through lonesome nightmare after nightmare: with his eyes wide open. The singer’s appeared wider, more cautious, more frustrated, more dead than before.

Giving in, nudging at his glasses, he took a stool beside Warren, who was clearly aware of the tension. It didn’t stop him from mushing about Barbarella’s food and continuing the classic _I made the effort of sounding like an airplane, you’re entertained, now chew_ routine. She didn’t even hold her arms out for a hug from her mummy: that hurt.

_Leave no trace._

A chaste kiss was planted on the bassist’s cheek as he was served with a plate of fresh pancakes and somewhat fresh berries.

_Hide your face._

Simon perched before him, rolling a pancake slowly. Throughout breakfast, he and Warren kept up healthy conversation whilst John just sat there; picking at the fruit. Eventually, he shoved down as much of it as he could, having realised that the time was sneaking up on him and he really did need to be out soon for that appointment. 

_Mamma Taylor’s orders, as of a few hours ago, of course._

Jean would be with him, at least there was one Taylor still on his side.

_Damn stress of living._

He kissed Barbarella goodbye, who didn’t take her bright eyes off of Uncle Waz before her; shirtless and glowing like always. John coughed, turning away, without another sound. 

Emotions were to be at a high the whole day. Questions to be asked and brutally answered. John, the trooper, was sick of fighting but he knew that he should. He wanted too, he wanted too.

“You can take it or leave it Taylor, but you better believe it.” He muttered, slipping out the door.

He wanted too… Simon wanted too, he hoped. This was the start of something new, much bigger than what he could handle. At least now, he had _one_ major answer to one of his biggest burning questions. Maybe two, if he was lucky.

***  
  


They were back in the studio in no time and two weeks somehow passed. Miraculously those two weeks were live-able, John was learning to survive. On the work side of things: _Notorious_ was about there, bar a couple tracks that they hoped Nile would work his magic on to turn them from dull to the classic bop, a sure fire Duran classic.   
  


On the _unmentionable_ side of things: John had drifted in and out. He was determined to stay sober, as sober as he could be - knowing that there was nothing so readily on offer to him in the confinements of his London apartment now. Knowing that an immediate stop to all his saints and sinners would destroy his system from within. The booze had been taken, the bar stripped bare. The white powder was plaguing his mind constantly, but only a quick sniff here and there.

It would be anything but easy, each day would surely be a struggle. He prayed that there would be enough distractions, from the band at the very least, that would keep him sane. Barbarella helped there too. He was intent on slaving over her, to an extent. Being by her side, living and breathing her rhythm: back to finding solace in her and her heartbeat. She had been promised more than just a bloody miracle and, whether Simon was on land or not to even see, John was determined to deliver.

  
 _It was never too hate to start anew_ , _King Porn,_ he hoped.

***  
  


With Simon down in Dover for the weekend practicing for Fastnet, Warren and Nick had taken it upon themselves to watch John, really watch him. They kept note, John let them in. He didn’t step out of line, he didn’t take what he wasn’t supposed to without reason. The phone was virtually glued to him, through the hours in which Simon wasn’t riding the waves: with the wind in his hair; probably wishing he didn’t have to return to John and all his troubles on land.

He didn’t even know how they had gotten here but somehow, swallowing the last of his fear, he was ready for some answers.

The line crackled and fizzed, Simon fading in and out. “It’s been bugging you since the interview three weeks back, right? The press since? You’re not, uh, expecting a _proposal_ now are you?”

  
_No, no._

“What? No!” He lied, probably, “I don’t want… you don’t, shit man I.. you don’t have to do that Simon. Not now.”

  
_Notorious._

“Do you want more children, someday?”

  
_Yeeeeaaaaahhhh._

John paused, thoroughly lost for words. 

  
_That’s why I’ve done it again. No._

“John?”

_No_.

His pulse was racing, his heart beating a mile a minute.

_Notorious_.

“John, answer me.”

With a deep exhale, more than ready to jump off a cliff. “I _do_.”

“What?”

“We will, don’t ask me why but I see it. I never even friggin wanted kids, never mind a bastard but you know that. We didn’t plan on her, but somehow.. you’re right. This is right. It’s the way it should be.” 

He was sure that he hadn’t sounded so self-assured in yonks, beginning to find his feet.   
  


“I haven’t felt so... so _alive_ in years, you gave me this gift. So yeah, it’s bought us together when the rest of the fuckin’ dipshit band was tearin’ us apart. Now I know, having Barbie here, that you won’t leave me. You.. you won’t— shit,” he was tearing up now, “y’know, l-lea... _leave_ me.”

“That was real articulate, Johnny.”

He smiled, ruefully. “Thank you.”

“But will _you_ leave _me_?”

John was silenced, wishing he could be pulled into a much needed hug as he sobbed softly, hoping that the line was too poor for Simon to really hear it.

“Simon, luv, _listen_ to me.” The line dropped off and he missed Simon’s words. Burning on the edge, the hotter the intensity. “I don’t want you to keep leaving me. I wanna come with you guys, go sailing again.”

John could tell from the pause, that Simon was raising a brow and pouting to voice his concern.

“John, I don’t think—”

“—Barbie too, she loved it! Remember?”

“Maybe, I’ll think about it.”

“Well, she is _your_ daughter. How can she not love the water?”

“Drum’s pretty damn different from the bath, Johnny.” He deadpanned, John swept a tear and masked it behind a tiny giggle. “We’ll talk ‘bout it when I get back, okay?”

John nodded. Then laughed again, knowing Simon couldn’t see that. “I’ll do whatever I can, I mean it Charlie. Whatever it takes, I need to sort myself out for ya. For our angels.”

Simon was surely dismissing him with a flick of his wrist.

“I dunno how, I dunno when, but like you said: I know when to stop. I know when to say no. I ain’t getting any younger. Please, please believe me!” John’s voice were growing strained, faster than light. “Please, luv, lemme show you I can—”

“— I don’t think I can handle much more of that at this hour.”

“Okay, I’ll stop. You’ve ‘ad a long hard day at sea.” John grumbled, wanting nothing more than to run to Simon and smack him around the pretty head.

Or to run, to run all night and day.

  
“There’s one more thing I need to know, properly.”

He wouldn’t get away.

“Yes, carry on luv.”

Simon’s line crackled again, John groaned in frustration. “You didn’t really answer, I don’t think. Are you expecting a wedding someday?”

“You know you’re right, don’t think I did.” John cocked a brow, pouting.

There was a pause from the Dover end of the line. “Well... out with it!”

  
_John Le Bon Taylor?_

“You know what,” John found his smile. “Maybe. Maybe someday. Tie ya down to my sorry arse forever.”

  
_John Taylor Le Bon?_

“Oh god, no, no! A Roman Catholic hus- _band_?!” Even Simon, however poor his acting may have been in John’s eyes, couldn’t quite mask the hope in his tone. “Forgive me Father, for I have—”

“—Done plenty more than just _sinned_ , smartass.” John cackled, feeling his tears dry up. “ _Plenty_ more.”

  
_Nigel John Taylor Le Bon... Christ, how does Barbie deal with so many names?_

“Listen to me. Simon, I want you. I want you now, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow… you name it. Just please, gimme that chance Charlie.”

Things were on the upward curve again, slowly but surely.

“I want that house John, I really do. It’s a commitment I need to know that you’re willing to make.”

“I’m done with New York, I’ll sell it. And Paris, I’ll sell it.” His mind flashed: he wouldn’t be _John Taylor of London, Paris and New York_ anymore. He liked the sound of that: just Paris? West Berlin?

“Damn tax exile… we don’t need all those getaway places, only one for us. Somewhere special, away from the fans and the mayhem: if there’s even any left.”  
  


With a pout, “why wouldn’t there be? Charlie? Fans or mayhem, I mean.”

John could hear the grin, “when the world finds out that John Taylor’s off the market for good, a _neutered_ wanker too, finally tamed.”

“Neutered?!”

Internally, John screamed. Whether it was in fear or relief, he didn’t know. He didn’t question it, not at that moment.

“Yeah John. You’re mine, all mine.”

“You’ll have to tie me to something pretty damn heavy so I can’t escape!” John chuckled, picturing being tied down to something much more sinister...

“Nah babe, that’s effort. You’ll break free, with those damn puppy dog doe-eyes. I’ll just throw you in the attic, hands tied, and belt the door shut.”

  
John lost it at that.

Perhaps he really could come to like having a place to reside that was for them. Only them. And band business would be kept at arms length. He would be safe there, Barbarella would be safe there. John would be safe, as long as he was resting in Simon’s arms, cuddling him tight.

“So, a house?” John giggled again, rubbing at his bare finger that still bought him pain.  
  


“For now, yeah, deposit on a house.”

In John’s mind they were shaking on it, picking up the keys. John was delighted, as was Barbarella who was now wailing from her bedroom. 

“Oh shit, lemme call you back after. We’ve gotta discuss how many bedrooms and bathrooms plus the indoor hot tub.”

With a fading laugh, “hold your horses there. You go get her, Johnny.”

“Love you, dickhead.” He chanced it, slamming down the phone before Simon had a chance to reply. 

  
John headed to their daughter’s bed with his guitar at his side. He was ready to sing her back into the security of her dreamland as Simon couldn’t do the same right now. Half an hour later and they were back at it again — _no, not in that way! You dirty bastards_ — John fumbling with the phone cord as he nervously wrapped it around his fingers.

“You _do_ want to get married, at some point right? You’ve been on about it for years, Charlie, waitin’ for _your_ Rio and all that cherry ice cream.” John whispered. “Hear me, babe?”

“She’s with you, isn’t she?”

John grinned at that, wishing Barbarella was bouncing in his lap to prove that point properly.

“What’s with all the wedding talk nowadays?” There was a muted chuckle. “You can’t be that broody already Johnny, after one kid!”

“Cheeky sod, yeah. Yeah, maybe I am! You’ve changed me, you ass!” John laughed feebly, hand on his stomach, unsure that Simon was really joking. “I dunno, man, it’s just… just on my mind, you know?”

“Weddings and Babies?”

He snorted again, “Christ. The hell happened to me?”

_You know exactly._

There was an excruciating pause, John was certain the line had dropped off again.

  
_For once, you’re not running._

“Simon, luv?”

“I said, jeez, listen. You’re finally growing up Johnny, _settling down_ is calling and _security_ says you’re old enough to vote now.”

John was cackling at that, “‘Member Nick saying that once, when he told me he knew about Barbie the whole time. With Maggie still in office, her complete ignorance and childish dismissal of the _disease_ , depriving kids of their precious milk and whatever the hell else she’s famous for now, Simon, I hope I ain’t voting for jack shit!”

“Speaking off, when’s she jacking up the taxes again?”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.. best get a move on with that house hunt don’t you think?”

Smiling, “I’m on it.”


	42. To Look Through The Eyes Of A Stranger

_**So soon, just after you’ve gone,** _   
_**My senses sharpen.** _

  
John was a wreck the entire drive down and yet somehow, maybe it was Barbarella happily babbling along with his _Arena_ cassette, or the teeniest glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t be turned away at the door - telling him to keep his foot on the pedal and to keep driving.   
  


_**But it always takes, so damn long,** _   
_**Before I feel how much my eyes have darkened.** _

It was early, he slipped away as soon as she had been fed and dressed. The drive wasn’t too far, two and half hours at most, but each mile seemed to race by. Whether John was driving at a dangerous speed, - _eighty eight miles! What the hell is a jigawatt?!_ \- or simply unable to focus anywhere else besides his end goal: there he was, cursing every bone in his body for bringing himself here.

Turning into the what he first assumed was the drive, he began a long ascent down some winding roads, mud and gravel, blanketed by the bright green grass and the friendly sunlight that seemed to guide his way. He also wondered why he took the _Delorean_ out for a spin, today of all days, to look through the eyes of a sudden stranger.

_**Fear hangs in a plane of gun smoke,** _   
_**Drifting in our room.** _

Clambering out the notorious gull-wing doors, careful not to whack his head like last time – _they really weren’t made for men of a certain height, goddamn you tiny McFly!_ \- he engulfed a shaky breath and let his stomach drop. There he was, there the mansion was, miles away from nowhere where the wind clearly carried the named Taylor, just not his.

**_So easy to disturb._ **

“I shouldn’t, fuck, I can’t do this!” John whisked himself around, head hitting the back of the car as he bought his arms to rest by his sides. “The hell am I doing this? Why _now_?!”

**_With a thought._ **

“Mum- _ma_.”

John threw his head up, shaking.

“ _Mumma!_ ”

**_With a whisper._ **

Flinging himself around, John took sight of the beautiful, muted and classic mansion before him. The rich stone work, that glistened ruby when the sun hit. The bright white windows, that stretched for miles and miles. The marble steps, only a few paces from his car.

“Wow,” was all he could say, thoroughly in awe.

_**With a careless memory.** _

“They’ve done well.”

“Nijuul!” Her tinkly tones sounded again, pulling John from his daydream.

John didn’t know what hit him, perhaps it was Barbarella’s obvious concern. He swooped inside, fumbled with her car seat, and bought her back out. He would be lying if he didn’t say how her not so teeny anymore arms latched themselves around him, bringing him into a tight hug and how much that meant to him. Reeling her Mummy in and steadying his breath with her slower, more persistent heart beat. _Drumbeat_.   
  


“Whyyyyyy why why, whyyyyyy is Mummy doing this, baby?” He muttered, kissing it into her forehead. “Has Mummy finally lost it?”

Carefully resting her on one shoulder, John fished out a couple bags of her things and slammed the door down. 

**_So easy to disturb._ **

“‘It’s a big day for Mummy today,” he breathed, swallowing down his tears, “make sure Mummy doesn’t blow it.”

**_With a thought._ **

Together, John and Barbarella shuffled to the steps. If he threw his head back to catch sight of the grand building before him: John would surely topple over. Shaking his head he steadied himself, looking forward, bleary gaze fixed on the front door. A quivering finger pressed the bell, a quivering fist knocked too. Taking a step back, nearly tripping over Barbarella’s carry on, John held his breath and—

**_With a whisper._ **

“Oh my Fr—”

  
He was stunned, they both were. John’s eyes were wide, he blamed the shock and embarrassment, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

_**With a careless memory.** _

Neither man said anything, only the raise in John’s pulse could be heard as he tried to assemble his disjointed words to simply say the word:

“ _Hi!_ ” Her eager voice bought him out of his trance, gaze snapping to Barbarella. She waved, as did John sheepishly, wanting to throw himself down the steps and fall right back into his—

“—The _Delorean?_ Seriously John? You still have it?” The voice sounded coy, as coy as one could be wearing what he was wearing. “It hasn’t conked out on you, yet?”

John was staring, no, gaping, blinking rapidly at the man before him. Lightly muscled, handsome face, strong features and glistening eyes that could still melt him. That were still melting him. And, gosh, those lips…

“Why are you, you know uh,” the bassist gestured wildly.

He looked down at himself, without a care in the world. Nude. Gloriously nude, under there.

“In my wife’s pink negligee?” The voice answered, a hint of laughter present in that warning tone. 

“It’s nice. A nice, shit, salmon colour…” John blushed deeply, averting both his and his baby’s gaze. “Y-yeah, why, uh, why that?”

“Because I wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour, you asshole. We both thought it was the post man, finally with that Duran demo I was promised.”

_Ouch_.

John straightened up, the tone was cold. Warning, a rattle going off in his brain. Fear of flying?

_No, not me._

There was a frustrated sigh, “what are you even doing here, suddenly remembering that I _exist?_ ” He scratched his nose then raised his muscular arms above his head, now filling the doorway so John couldn’t see inside. “Could’ve called me first.”

“I did, a couple times… these last uh.”

“Drunk, may I add, high too, say oh I don’t know John - _three_ times in six months?”

John nodded, sagely.

“Still seeing me in those coke fuelled hallucinations?”

“The what?”

“From the start of this thing, remember? In the plane and then the penthouse?” He waved John off. “Of course you don’t, you were on the highway right into next week.”

“N-no-no, I ‘member.”

The mental images, painfully disjointed, formed in his mind. How many times had he been on a bender and seen him, been tortured by him? Having tortured him himself, for years, bottles in hand, bottles smashing above his head…

“John, I haven’t got the energy for this, just _what_ are you on?”

“Nothing!” He spoke, oddly fast. “I’ll tell ya everything, just please lemme in. I’ve been dying for a piss since Oxford. Please, man, lemme—”

“—Could’ve stopped on the way.”

John motioned to Barbarella.

“Could’ve taken her in with you.”

John pouted.

“Or were you just in that much of a hurry to _Come Up And See Me?_ ”

_Why won’t you_ _Make Me Smile?_

John’s gaze fell to his feet.

_I’ll do what you want, I just won’t run wild._

“Alright. You’re as impatient as always.” He held out a hand, still clutching tight to the doorframe and obstructing John’s view. To the _kill_.

Nodding again, fumbling with his bags, John hopped over the threshold and his stomach dropped. He had been invited in, into another sanctuary that he had no business disgracing with his face. He was panting softly, bangles clinking as he swept a light sheen of sweat forming across his face. Surely his cheeks were bright red and his eyes glassy: no wonder he thought John must be high.

“Down the corridor, take a left then it’s the second door.”

“Okay, can you… uh, yeah.” 

John handed Barbarella over, who’s grabby hands and excited little face seemed to suddenly beam in those strong arms – _it’s like she knows him, how could she know him?_ \- He wanted to indulge in the sight, how this tender moment really meant the world to him and now he was staring at them, dumbfounded, gaze watery and biting into his bottom lip.

_It’s like he knows her, too. What the hell?!_

“Uh, Johnny.” There was a tap on his shoulder, so foreign but never forgotten. “ _Bathroom_.”  
  


“Shit, right. Thanks.”

  
John admittedly got lost through the countryside manor paradise that was this crazy place he now found himself in. Eventually he stumbled his way back down to the grand foyer he first had entered, admiring the soft and neutral tones that painted the walls. The high ceilings, sparse decoration, but when there was an ornament to see he would see it: how it glimmered in it’s own light. John smiled ruefully, catching the _Nagel_ painting that led him too what he hoped was the living space. 

“A good choice, very him.”

She was demure, shy, covering herself with one gloved hand. Turned away from the beholder, who’s perverse eye traced her lean form; she leant back into the murky blue with her lips pursed, white skin shining, soft and supple. 

Barbarella’s giggles bought him round the final corner, having finally found them.

“Sorry, I, you know, got a little lost down by the kitchen. Took a wrong turn, I guess?” John babbled, standing awkwardly with his hands behind his back, as though he was waiting to be allocated a seat.

Barbarella was clapping merrily in his lap. He, who was drumming something on his thigh, still wearing next to nothing. John smirked, Barbarella seemed oddly fascinated by the layers of pink fluff, playing with the hem of the lingerie. 

John tried not to think what else his daughter may or may not be sat on.

_Lucky girl._

He looked up, John stumbled backwards. Suddenly, throat threatening to close on him, to choke him, he was being met by two darkened eyes that glared daggers at him. Two pursed lips that John could tell, were barely holding back his rain.

_After all this time, all I had to do was sit on him._

“Would you mind?” He nodded to his daughter, still lost in the pink, “I’ll go change.”

“Oh yeah, right.”

They both danced around the awkwardness in the room – how cold Barbarella’s skin was to John, from where he had held her. John averted his gaze best he could, oddly desperate to catch a glimpse of him, all of him, marvel in the sights of the man he had become in these few, painfully long months since they had—

“What you, want me to take it off?” He smirked, a familiar smirk that cut John’s trail of traitorous thoughts. “Is that why you’re here? Charlie’s not enough for you?”

He didn’t give John the chance to answer, before slipping out the room. John flushed, flushed deep.

When he returned, John was still standing awkwardly, with Barbarella having latched back onto her Mummy and playing with John’s grotty curls. They had wandered, were sniffing out what lay in this living room. Now at the mantle, his gaze fell atop of an album, then another, the odd framed photograph of the two of them. He picked it up, noticing the photograph was coming loose. It swept merrily to the floor, John’s eyes didn’t follow it.

He stared, gobsmacked at the photograph underneath it; barely able to comprehend why it had been simply covered up and not shredded. John was staring back at his younger self, throwing up two peace signs behind him, suited and booted, with a dopey grin sweeping his puffy face.

“And smile, when the butterfly escapes,” he muttered, to the frame, “the killin’ jar. He’s the _butterfly_ Barbie, he always was.”

He chanced another treasured glance at the photograph; knowing that he had the exact same one back at his place. In a box somewhere, along with whatever few trinkets and memories John had from ’83. In a cardboard box marked with the year: it was the only way he could recall when it was.

“I’m so glad he got away from us, killing him. He deserves the world Barbie, you know?”

Upon sensing his return, John stammered out his apology for snooping; gnawing into his cuticles as he span around. Surprised, he was faced by both of them, fully dressed and gleaming. Hand in hand, gazes cautious. Not predatory, not too hungry for John’s wolf, but still. Something deep, something scary.

“Dat?” Barbarella asked him, pointing, mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape in questioning. 

“Who dat? I wish I knew, Barbie. I wish I knew.” He answered before he could stop himself, praying that Barbarella was talking about the photograph of the two of them in ’83, not the couple stood before him.

“Have you eaten breakfast? It’s only just past ten and knowing you, you haven’t. We were going to do a fry up if you’d like to join us?”

John’s eyes followed the voice, soft and feminine, welcoming as always. 

  
“That sounds great, thank you.” He stuttered.

“John, come here. Take a seat.”

John didn’t dare to hug him, to hug either of them.

“The hell are you doing here?”

As soon as his ass made contact with the sofa, Barbarella was already shuffling out of her Mummy’s grip and into the hands of someone new, fingers hopefully not calloused and raw. John, with a deep exhale, didn’t try to fight. 

He let her go.

Throwing his hands into his lap, he sighed audibly; unsure where to look next.

“John, John please. Look at me,” there was a hand on his shoulder, like ice, “why are you here?”

“Uh, I didn’t know who else to turn too and, shit,” John stumbled over the name, “can we have a moment alone?” 

Nodding to the man beside him, asking for silent permission to banish his wife from her own living room. They pursed their lips and narrowed their eyes, which for the first time in a long time didn’t appear to be so beaten down and full of sorrow.

He gave into John’s silent demand.

“Maybe you could _introduce_ us, first?” He spat, motioning to the bouncing baby in his grip.

“Crap, right, I,” - _you bellend_ \- John paused, visibly rattled.

Engulfing another stupidly huge breath, struggling over the words, the names that should’ve been so easy to roll off of his tongue. Sober. Stone cold _sober_. And idiotic.

“Barbie,” he jangled his bangles before her face, she eyed him eagerly, “I want you to, to meet… God this is hard!”

He gathered his thoughts, really wishing that Simon was sat beside him to make this easier. Or, to hide behind Simon as Simon made the unceremonious re-union with his fellow snake.

“Barbie, I want you to meet Auntie Giovanna and… and.”

“And?” He prompted, a devilish glint in his eye.

“Unc… Uncle _Roger_.” He let out in a breath, tearing up and poorly hiding it. 

_Forty-two chapters and you didn’t even say his name once. Well done, you deluded prick._

“Uncle _Froggie_ , should you want to call me that!” Roger tickled her, she was shimmying and squealing in his loving grip. “Only you, not that big, stupid Mother of yours!”

_When hasn’t he been on your mind though? Be real here, Taylor._

John watched, enthralled, as he hoisted his daughter up; both he and Giovanna were waving to her. Pulling faces, giggling and Barbarella – _the little traitor!_ – was waving back.

Whilst they occupied his daughter’s precious time; John couldn’t help himself. He rose to standing, shaking, chains clinking on his hip, and began to mosey on down to where those albums laid. He was sure, not willing to admit the blackout that was the majority of the past four years vitally clogged his memory; that he knew what that album was. Who, more to the point, had been captured in that special moment: preserved and savoured.

Hands trembling, wondering if they had even noticed he had shifted, John fingered the photo album and bought it closer. Opening it to a random page and there they were: a baby Roger and… and…

“ _Nigel_.” A single tear pelted his younger form, in a dusty red shirt, illuminated by the one _Rum Runner_ stage light at his feet. 

Roger was just in the shot, looking away from the camera with his sticks in hand. John’s gaze focused on that of his seventeen year old self, glasses, shaggy fringe, clutching tight to his bass. He shivered, bodily, whirling himself around and he could’ve sworn: time just stopped.

Roger was right beside him, peeking at the album the bassist held over his shoulder. John didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything, only placing down the album and leaning up against the mantle where he had found it. There were tears in his eyes now, a trembling bottom lip. He wanted desperately to reel his drum— no, his _friend_ back in, into a tight and desperate hug in the hopes that Roger wouldn’t let go.

John’s internal thoughts were silenced as he thrust himself into Roger’s welcoming grip, burying his face in his shoulder and refraining from just _bawling_.

“Why is it, John, that whenever we meet you’re crying?” Roger whispered, a smooth hand caressing John’s ringlets, shushing him on his shoulder. 

John barked out a little laugh at that, the memories of the grand reunions in airport bathrooms and Paris hotel rooms, however the tears kept up their flow.

He missed him dearly, his tender touches, his warm hugs: the support that their drummer once was. Sadly, John needed to give Roger his body back at some point. Craving those precious extra moments, although he felt Roger begin to pull away, John squeezed him extra tight then parted with a sigh. A shaky hand manoeuvred itself up to his eyes, then his cheeks, wet with salt. 

Then, moaning softly, another set of oddly smooth fingertips found themselves brushing away the little pellets of water that coated John’s face and he realised: he was still looking into the eyes of a _stranger_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nagel painting described here is really the one that I think best captures Roger in the early eighties. I’d love to have her join my Johnny tattoo with the very same Secret Oktober lyrics, that I really do relate to Roger too.
> 
> Also, the whole pink negligee thing. Roger’s words, paparazzi in 1986, not mine...


	43. Scent And A Sound, I’m Lost And I’m Found

They kept the chat light over breakfast, Giovanna really did make the fluffiest scrambled eggs John had ever eaten. She’d set out a buffet, apparently Barbarella had helped keep her company in the kitchen. John praised her, letting her nibble on a slice of his toast; whilst he finished off his sausages and beans. Giggling, he saw her eyeing up his hash browns too.

“Eh, why not? Is anybody hun- _gry_?!” He sang, handing one too her, really not sure a one year old should be eating it. But he simply shrugged and she gnawed away. She was smiling, so he took that as a win. 

Throughout breakfast, when Barbarella wasn’t in the way, he kept his line of sight directly opposite him. On Roger, on Giovanna, both with a soft gaze on him. Though John couldn’t hide, Roger had seen him in endless worse states than right now. He really did owe his other half the explanation.

  
_Ahem, other drumming half.  
  
_

His wife insisted on Roger leaving her and Barbarella to do the dishes, so out the two Taylors slipped; heading back to the living room.

_Better half._

“She’s really beautiful, Johnny. She looks just like you, it’s scary!” Roger had his hands in his pockets, leading the way. “She has your eyes.”

“Yeah, she keeps on growin’ and growin’… I can barely keep up!” He giggled, taking a seat.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to her birthday party.”

“Don't be! You weren’t even in the country, man. How’s the family in Italy?”

They kept the chat light for a few more minutes, John asking endlessly about Roger’s new life. His new home, whether or not he actually had any neighbours. Although it quickly became clear to him, that yes, Roger was still content with his decision: leaving was absolutely the right thing to do.

And no, John wasn’t here to talk him back for the next album. That would be cruel, pointless but cruel for both Taylors to hear. He’d already tried that in a nearby pub, John nursing a _Pepsi_ , knowing full well what Roger’s answer would be.

Then finally, finally John had gotten to his point. Why he was visiting his ex-drummer out of the blue. Roger was always the first to know, John wanted him to be the first again. 

Roger motioned to his record player, sat solitary in the corner of the grand room. He let John paw through the singles box, as John hunted for the _Duran Duran_ that he was sure wouldn’t be in there. He pawed through the whole thing, even _Power Station_ cropped up, thankful it was only a handful of records that Roger kept here and then, his hand stalled.

Stuttering, slow and cautious, he caught sight of a familiar figure on the sleeve. And then another, knowing exactly who was staring at him, surely mocking him; with the fact that he even had a solo career.

“W-what? Uh, Rog?” John held the single up, not wanting to look at it anymore.

“Oh, yeah, about that. John—”

Roger silenced himself, John put down the needle.  
  


_**People say I'm crazy  
I'm just a fool  
Well, I'm the pigeon  
And baby, you're the stool.** _

John straightened up.

“John, listen I—”

“—Don’t, man.”

**_Always loved your coloured hair_ **   
**_Always loved the clothes you wear_ **   
**_I can say that you turn me on_ **   
**_Why not stay all night long._ **

“When did he release this, Rog? Tell me.”

There was a painful pause. “Not long, end of May. You haven’t heard it? Or Palmer’s Addicted to—”

“Yeah I’ve fuckin’ heard that, shit’s playin’ everywhere. Not this, the hell is this?”

“It’s An—”

**_Take it easy_ **   
**_On yourself_ **   
**_Take it easy._ **

“ _Andy_. Remember him? The lead rhythm guitarist of your _Bowie_ -infused dreams?” Roger spat, John wondered why he wanted to fight.

  
“We’re openin’ for _Bowie_ next year, ya know.” John shot back, lamely.

“Seriously?”

“Simon... don’t ask, I still don’t know how but he did it. Whatever. You know we made it through forty-two chapters of this and I hadn’t said his name since the second – talkin’ ‘bout _Power Station_ and moving on and shit.”

He gestured wildly, voice beginning to hitch. Not bothering to take in Roger’s retaliation, no matter how confused he sounded.

“Now look at me, wanting to snap the damn vinyl in two!” John spat, whirring around so Roger was in his sights.

_**There ain't no one else** _   
_**Don't give me reasons** _   
_**And I won't ask for nothing.** _

“And _you!_ ” He pointed. “Hadn’t mentioned your name once, not throughout this whole damn story! And now, fuck it. Here you are, Ro- _ger_ , here I am.”

“Chapters... story? What are you talking about?! You said you weren’t on anything John and I don’t think I can believe that.”

“Oh,” – _this’d be the part where the audience get a cheeky knowing nod from me_ – “ahem, chapters in my… my uh life, I mean.”

Roger squinted, not quite believing him.

“I ‘avent taken anything okay, I swear. I told you, you believed me!” 

John cast one final glance over the record sleeve, hunting for the credits.

_And Waz was right. Terry Bozzio, credited on guitar. Right there. He broke up Warren’s band._

Trying to mask the newfound rage that began to boil, John strolled over to Roger. He apologised for the little outburst and promised to listen too… no, no more names. No more dodging it. 

“I wanna give… Andy a listen, okay?” John schooled his voice into ‘calm.’

“He’s doing really well John, whether you care or not.”

Inquisitive, “and how do you know ‘bout that? You’re still _talkin_ ’ to him, aren’t you?”

Roger nodded once, if John blinked he would’ve missed it. “He’s my best friend Johnny, I’m not just going to cut him out of my life because Duran is over for us, for now. I know he left partly because of me, okay? You don’t like that we still communicate then, screw it, tough!”

John visibly was shocked. Since when had Roger:  
A) ever truly said so much?   
B) spoken up for himself so?  
C) been so feisty with him?

Shaking the thoughts from his confused head, John waved him over.

Together they sank into the sofa, John grabbing a cushion and holding it tight to his chest. Moments passed, the record span again, and for the first time in yonks: John heard Andy, all of Andy. Solo.

“Rog, is he, you know.”

“Making an album?” 

“Debut,” John said it more into the cushion he was clutching rather than Roger’s face.

  
_Too many things, too much to know._

“Tracey called Gio the other week, he’s writing a lot and knows there’s interest down in LA. I hope, John, I hope he does get a record deal. He deserves it.”

  
  
John didn’t hold back his rain: on some level, he was damn proud.

_Taylor boys, make some noise huh?_

_Ooh-ahh._

“I know it’s non of my business now and all but uh, Rog,” he swallowed audibly, “keep a… a you know, close eye on ‘im. Lemme know he’s okay.”

“John,” the bassist’s eyes widened in surprise as Roger gripped his hands. “He’s doing fine, absolutely fine. He hasn’t been so happy in years. So am I.”

  
Roger spoke with such a firmness to his tone that John couldn’t argue. He would have to force himself to believe it but fine, okay: they chose this life and John, kicking and screaming, would have to let both Taylors live it.

“Do you want to hear _Riptide_ , John? I really thought you would’ve heard it through by now.”

John nodded, knowing that he would have to get over both artists at some point. Listening to the record in full, knowing who was playing on the opening track to Palmer’s solo ‘masterpiece’ as it were.

  
***  
  


“You want him to _marry_ you?” Roger didn’t hide his shock. “You, _you_ Johnny, of all people?”

“...I had his baby.” It was sheepish.

“Shit, good point.”

Chuckling, “yeah Rog, I can’t believe it either.”

He was clutching that finger again, again noticing how red and raw it was from all his scratching.  
  


“You’re going to get a _house_ together too? Fuck John; why is it now I’m not there, you decide to grow up?” Roger lightly smacked him on the arm, John smiled ruefully.

“We had too. I had too.”

_Don’t bring up the album, he doesn’t need to hear that now._

Roger let it slide.

“Are you happy? You definitely have changed.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

_Or do bring up the album, maybe it’ll piss him off._

“Yeah, I guess.” There was a pause, to consider. “Sorry man, it’s just hard to picture you two tied down, even with Barbarella, it’s… yeah, wow.”

“Do you think, Rog,” he dared, “I’m rushin’ into all this?”

“John, I’ll be frank with you.” John straightened up, teeth plummeting into his bottom lip. “I don’t think I know anymore, I don’t know enough about you’re relationship now to say. When I was there, what relationship did you two have? You didn’t show it a lot, ‘specially not in this last year; where you both really needed eachother.”

“But _Power Station_ is outta my system now! _Arcadia_ is done.” John shot back, oddly forceful.   
  


“Will you ever stop running from him, John?”

He was clutching that finger again, again noticing how red and raw it was from all his scratching.

“Because you should. I don’t know how many more times he’ll try to catch you.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” John admitted, in a breath.

“You know what Johnny, I don’t know how else to say it so I’ll just… you’re lucky enough that you can get married, that Charlie even wants you too. It doesn’t matter what I say, I’m not with you anymore. And besides,” he cut himself off with a laugh, “when did you ever listen to anyone else?”

“You’re a hell of a lot more sly now, arentcha? Little Frog?”

“Don’t _Little Frog_ me, you bastard.”

John immediately apologised. Those days were over now – _bastard indeed._

“If you’re gonna do it, you’ll do it. I know you John – impatient as ever.”

John tried to decode his tone, deciding that it was playful. That, as always, Roger was in high spirits and kept faith in him.

  
“You’re talking for free, why stop yourself?”

He was clutching that finger again, again noticing how red and raw it was from all his scratching.

“You sayin’, Rog, I should... I could ask him?”

“I don’t wanna be responsible for putting that idea in your head, John.”

“You didn’t, I don’t think.”

They ploughed on, John kept delivering blow after blow about he and Simon. Roger kept on listening, the way he always had, no matter how pointless the diatribe may have seemed.

Then came the hard bit, the reason John really was here.

Roger was always the first to know, John wanted him to be the first again.


	44. Only Get A Second Chance, When Danger’s On The Wind

Leaving the security of the port behind, she began to slip into the murky blue; glistening under the vibrant sunlight. Her strong core gleamed white, blinding as she was paved golden. A speck of fine dust, so small, glimmering atop of the striking blue that carried her; submerging her yet guiding her. She showed them that she was home. Riding the channel, bobbing with force on the water, the tranquil waves cast the melody and she, _Drum_ , decked out with the finest of sails and insignia, perfected and performed it.

Standing proud, the wind tussling his hair, little pellets of water coating his form; John stood, clutching tight to the rail. He knew, casting a glance upwards to the sails, where the man he loved was standing and admiring the ocean before him: his ocean. John knew, there was no way he could fall.

Arms outstretched, John engulfed the cool air as it twirled upon him. For the first time in forever, he wasn’t afraid. He let his body grow loose, let himself be swayed by the wind. Bidding farewell to his striking opal gaze, cast a new shade brighter with the waves crashing before him, John’s gaze slipped shut. He let himself feel. Feel everything, embracing how alive he felt. How, if he dared to admit, at _home_ he felt.

For the first time in forever, having gotten his _second chance with danger on the wind,_ John knew that there was no place that he and Simon would rather be. Thoughts of sailing the seven seas filled his mind, how he knew with Simon by his side that every day would be worth it - remarkable. His sea legs would grow, he would become steady on his feet with the man of his dreams there to write him his symphony. 

At sea, there were no press. No paparazzi to hound him, to frighten him. To pull him back into the torturous reality that was the high life. He didn’t need that. He didn’t want it. Simon was his harmony. With the wind in his hair, the simmering summer sun waltzing down to meet him, the air was clear and he – if he dared to admit it – was finally _free._

John let slip a pleased sigh, hands caressing his chest, having felt such a strong presence long before there was a smooth hand on his shoulder. With a giggle, he dismissed the thought as to how he had swept down from the mast so quickly, the world at his feet, to lie awake before John. Thinking of him. 

Both hands came to rest across his chest, John guided Simon’s open palms to do the same. 

Feeling the breeze, the bodily shiver was unmistakable; John ground his body into the welcoming frame at his back. Turning slowly, he nuzzled that neck, inhaling the deep scent of the welcome waves that coated both of their skin. He sucked it in, that life force, riding the high that was his beloved Simon at his back. 

Now backlit by the gleaming sunlight, backed up against the handrail; John let the last of his inhibitions jump ship as he pulled himself in even closer. Dangling dangerously close to the side, he felt so at ease. So close, teetering over the edge of a tiny oblivion; their lips met in a slow, rhythmical hold. Both coated with a faint sheen of sea water, John found himself smiling as to how wonderful Simon tasted: adding his fine blue to John’s sheen of silver.

They were free, they had the right to remain free. No wonder why his front man craved the ocean breeze so badly, having that part of earth to traverse of his own. There was a thrill in the danger, a thrill bought about by the tame waves gliding beneath Drum; as she picked up speed. 

  
Miles and miles from nowhere, where the wind carried _her_ name to blow the ship back home.

***

  
Thrashing from side to side, he was thrown into the far wall; before being pushed back to tumble down. He collided face first, with a grunt, with the floor. No not the floor - the _ceiling_. Wild and disoriented, he struggled to rise to standing.

He couldn’t, the force was too strong. The thrust of her, her strength and her power was too overwhelming: he was sent plummeting back down, on all fours with a rough howl, right before his front man. He too was thrashed from his slumber, blinking rapidly with a questioning. Why was John there? Why was John trying to clamber onto the small bed? 

“John?” There was a yawn, a crash from above. “What are…” 

It seemed to fade into white noise. Or was it an alarm?

“Baby, please.” John muttered, tasting salt, swimming in it. “What’s happenin’?!”

John’s shrill screech finally managed to shake him out of it, eyes cloudy with tears and John was thrust unceremoniously forward into Simon again; clutching at his damp blanket with a shaking hand. He had been thrown from the bed above, with a crack, then a crash, and had woken him up. The crew, they were all congregating there. The screams; the panic settling in, there was no way out.

Water swirling, as did the hysteria, teasing them, taunting them as higher it rose at an alarming speed. John wondered when she had grown so hostile, losing any sense of protection that the vessel had over her crew: how Drum could let them down, by going down. 

Sirens blared, they were shunned into darkness. Being choked by the salty demon that swam up their legs, climbing and climbing; threatening to take each man, all twenty seven of them, they were going down. 

Sirens blared, the refracted sunlight tried to force its way through a single window. Basking them in a murky green, a warrior in its own right, the channel fought with them and they couldn’t fight back. The waves were ruthless, dragging down the vessel quicker, turning them around and flinging them to the top. There was no way out, a dive. Or plummet to the bottom of the ocean with her, watch her, Drum, let slip to their biggest of evils: Simon’s beloved tidal wave.

Ears ringing, tears pricking at his eyes, shaky hands were trying to grasp at him and disjointed voices were yelling over and over. John couldn’t hear a thing. All that he could focus on was Simon’s tones, tones of warning and fear: he couldn’t hide them. John wouldn’t allow it. He may not have had the experience, any fleeting chance of getting through this alone; but he knew that Simon couldn’t lie to him about what was happening.

“Simon, are we… you know?” He whispered, gnawing into his bottom lip as Simon stalled.

  
He nodded.

They’re going down.

A man at his back, then another, they were wrestling with John, trying to pry him away. John could only collapse into Simon’s arms, who fought to bring himself up. To stand in what was left of the cabin. Falling back into the soak, gear was being thrown their way, gear that John didn’t have the know how to use. Panicking, voice barely deafened by the manic cries of all the men around him, all he could make out was one simple word:

“The hell are you doing? Go, _go_ John!”

Sniffling, battling with himself to stay put, John was again in the hands of the crew; poorly tearing himself away from their vile grip. 

“No!” He swore he wouldn’t leave Simon again. “Follow!”

“Can’t you see?!” Simon gestured wildly, John didn’t get it.

  
Simon was trapped. John didn’t know what by but he couldn’t move.

“Get him _out_ of here!” Simon’s tone had his heart in a vice.

John was soaked, the water had risen past his knees and he had fallen into it kicking and screaming, how he couldn’t cooperate would only bring them down faster.

In a shaky heartbeat, there was one other voice that John could cling too. 

“Where’s…”

Her screams of bloody murder, shunned away into a different cabin that was separated by a single wall. 

“My _Baby?_ ”

Barbarella’s screeches far surpassed John’s own as gut wrenching, she was alone in there. Neither of the frogmen seemed to have realised, John lashed out again and they let him go: waddling through, tearing past Simon and the gear that floated lifeless all around him, he tread. Paddled, crawled, clung to the bed post, the little furniture that was still rooted to the ground. The ceiling.

She was right there. He couldn’t get to her.

Simon couldn’t wrestle his body free. John didn’t know what stopped him, he’d never stop trying.

She was right there. He couldn’t save her.

“I need you...” came another call, John didn’t hear it over his own wail.   
  


“Grab his arms!”

“Mr Taylor, please will you—”

“To hell with it!”

“Just _save_ her!” John cried, hands quivering as he pointed her out, shrieking. “Somebody, anybody, ple—”

John was cut off. Hands around his waist, water creeping closer, Barbarella was ripped from his sight as the men flung him around and away with it.

“Simon.”

He wasn’t there. 

Another harsh yank at his sides, the men were screaming at him. There was no time, he’d have to leave now. 

“Simon!”

He’d broken free.

“Charlie please!” He spat, trying to claw at Simon who was too far out of reach.

“Leave him, John you have one minute.” Simon commanded, in a tone so hostile that John visibly panicked. “What?”

Trembling, ever so close to slipping out the door. “I do-don’t, baby please, you need… somebody save her!”

_You can’t leave me again._

“Get him outta here!” Simon spat, fear evident in his gaze. 

“Si—”

_I’m not leaving you behind, luv._

“—I’m not letting you get hurt, John, go! Stop fighting and fucking _go!_ ”

  
The men who had caught him the first time had vanished. A new set of hands were at his sides: they still weren’t that of a rescue.

“John, I said—”

“—I’m not _leavin_ ’ you! I’m not leavin’ her here!” Tears streaming, John could almost reach him. “Please, just.. just save my daughter! Come back to me!”

Simon’s lips were ever so far now, John didn’t know how, he craved that needy kiss. The final kiss, he’d be tasting death on his lover’s quivering lips. His tears were falling uncontrollably now, his whole body jolted; the water continued to rise and he couldn’t give the demons swimming around his legs.

“I’m not losing you too, John!” Simon’s voice began to fade, he was disappearing into the water that threatened to steal every breath. “Fuckin’ _go!_ ”

Simon was ripped from his sight too, too fast. Plunging deep, breath caught in his throat. The men had a strong grip on John, they were growing too forceful and still John couldn’t think to let them win.

“I.. I love you!” He shot back, desperately. “Come back to us!”

“Us?” He heard Simon, muffled, he didn’t see him.

Panting, he insisted, “ _us_.” 

Pulse rabbiting, water determined to steal his last breath, looking death in the face – wishing it wasn’t Simon’s face – he called, cursing himself for it; choking on his own spit.

“You can’t leave me! Not now, I can’t do it again alone!” John was almost there, an exit route in sight.

The water was rising.

Simon was further away than ever now.

“Do _what?!_ ” He called, John hunting for his body, long john’s being thrown on.

Panicking and overly aggressive, John fought with himself not to fall to the ground; the men behind him barely able to keep him up right. His heart was in his throat, pulse throbbing in his head. He let it slip in a single shriek, before it was too late.

The water was rising.

Simon wouldn’t make it.

“Get your mits offa me!” John snarled, so damn close to the exit. “I’m _pregnant!_ ”

John had to make it.

“Alright?! Eight weeks-ish.” He added, without thought. “Okay? Don’t you fuckin’ _dare_ leave us. Please, please Charlie… come b-back, come back _home_ to me!”

_And now you say your prayers._

That was the last thing John managed to say. He hadn’t managed to catch a reaction, the whole cabin had fallen silent and he needed to run. There was no where to run. John was forced out, thrown into the waves, plunging deep as two bodies joined him; submerged into the inky blue. Fighting to not be swallowed, foreign hands on him, they pushed him up. 

_Save it till the morning after._

  
He couldn’t climb, a slip, then up right again. He crawled, shaking like a leaf and throughly drenched: one name on his lips.

_Simon_.

He pushed himself up.

_Simon_.

He threw his body weight forward.

_Simon_.

A hand was held out.

_Simon_.

John took it.

_Simon_.

He was hoisted atop of her.

_Simon_.

Drum was upsidown. Only now could he see it, could begin to believe it; sat right above her – the bottom of her. Along with a few crew members, their figures shaking as more and more breeched the surface. They scrambled atop of her, clutching tight to her body; waiting for her to toss them back into the water, for the water to pull them all down with brute force.

Shivering, still crying oceans; there John was: barely bobbing atop of the channel, a mere white speck amongst the endless blue, surrounded by men that weren’t Simon. Clutching tight to his stomach, rocking back and forth with his name dropping off of his lips: he was possessed, drenched in his tears, emotions at their height. 

“Will he…” he stumbled, unsure how to answer his question. Unsure by what he wanted to know.

The man beside him, with a name John didn’t care to know, simply turned away. That didn’t stop John caching the glimmer of sorrow in the man’s baby blue gaze. 

He was surrounded by men that weren’t Simon. That weren’t Barbarella. With no man, no baby, no rescue in sight.


	45. The Salt Of Your Tears Has Stained To Our Hearts

The splashes were loud, heartbeats skipping on the track each time another soul thrust itself into the channel to catch them. He hadn’t a clue how long they had been there, now he was clutching tight to the open helicopter door; struggling for breath, choking on his tears.

  
Surrounded by the squadron, _717_ he somehow heard, the helicopter beating overhead; John shrunk back into a small ball. Foil was thrown around him, blankets and towels. He threw them back. Sliding closer to the edge as the helicopter rounded her, finally John saw her. The higher up they went and the smaller Drum became, upturned and lifeless; a victim white speck disrupting the violent waves that beat at her sides. He caught sight of her insignia, the proud branding at her sides and he wept: watching as more and more Royal Navy Airmen dropped in, hauling out body after body.

Only now could he smell it, the diesel that pierced the air and he choked. Inside her he had been blinded, only being able to hear and not smell. The diesel was filling his lungs now at a pace he didn’t dare to think about and acid from the battery. Still having trapped… trapped:

“Simon!” He cried, clutching tight to one of his men. 

He wasn’t there. John couldn’t see now, eyes foggy and his contacts were surely playing tricks on him: his front man wasn’t there.

“How… how, you know, l-long?” He wept, as an airman pulled him in.

“Forty minutes, sir.”

“ _Forty?!_ ” He repeated, heart in a vice. “He opens his mouth and he.. he’s dead!”

Crunching, distorted, he could barely hear the orders. Back to land, security of solid ground.

John bid goodbye to Simon’s beloved: bobbing somber atop of the channel. The new love of his life had just tried to kill him, John gagged at the thought. With no man, no baby in sight.

  
***  
  


Land, precious land, they were dropped and he was visibly shaken. Whiter than a sheet, his already ghostly skin paled further. Now John could see it: the paramedics. The ambulance. The coast guard. 

  
Crowds had gathered, help had come.

He wasn’t alone, he sought out the few familiar faces of those who manned Drum. He couldn’t run, could only cling to the distant whir that he prayed endlessly was the final chopper. Bringing back his beloved, his bouncing baby girl.

Collapsing, he let his heavy weight fall forward. There was help at his sides, throwing towels at him and mopping him up. A ghost, frightened by his own shadow, he had stared death in the face and let the ambulance doors open. Sirens blaring, deckhands were thrown in and he was instructed to follow. Staggering to his feet, brushing his soaked mullet from his eyes, he pivoted on his heel; shaking violently when facing the ambulance. 

**_And patience is down._ **

Finding his feet, he shuffled forward, unable to turn back around and bare the sight of the cruel waves mocking him. For having swallowed his love, for having trapped him below for so long. 

**_You’ve scared us as you’ve turned us around._ **

The sounds of the helicopter faded, the ringing in his ears growing shrill. A hand on the vehicle, the other on his stomach, John poorly steadied himself and clambered in through the open door.

**_When we lie asleep._ **

“Wait!”

**_We’ll be dreaming of you._ **

“Jo- _Johnny!_ ”

John paused, froze and hit rewind: breath hitching in his throat. He let himself look, dared himself to turn his head that extra degree.   
  


**_Blow._ **

He was out of there _Faster Than Light_.

_**Grey Lady blow your ships back home.** _

Crying again, somehow harsher this time; he rushed at that body, soaked to the core; wrapping a flimsy grip around that neck and burying his face in his shoulder. Voices muffled, breathing harsh, John only cried harder when the familiar touch of those hands rounded his sides; holding him close, determined to never let him go.

  
**_Blow._ **

“Are you really… here?!”

**_Grey Lady blow your ships back home._ **

“Y-yes baby, it’s me, Johnny…”

Desperate, longing, John was kissing him, the phantom before him haunted by his love having turned on him. Having left him for dead.

“ _Charlie_.”

Fingers quivering, he ran them all over Simon’s face, through his hair, down his sides to inspect his body so thorough: as though he was trying to read him in Braille. All over, in a rush, John babbling as he determined that limp body okay. _Alive_ , that meant okay.

Simon slammed his lips into John’s, taking the reigns, or trying to suck on what was bleeding through John’s crippled veins in the hopes of sparking something from his own. John let him, kissing hungrily and with fervour; tasting blood, sweat tears and _diesel_ on those lips. Pulling away, John tried to admire the sight; overly thankful that he was there. Simon was there, still breathing, still fighting for him.

“Why are you, you know, naked?” John pointed downwards, giggling softly through his tears. 

“ _Rockstar in his pants_ , what a headline.” Simon cried, long john’s long forgotten. Torn, perhaps.

They shared another needy kiss, John still tasting an escaped death on Simon’s plush lips.

“What happened? How did? How are you even?” John broke off.

Simon was visibly shaken, pale skin fighting for light under the tan that when John held his gaze, as bleary as his own eyes may be, he knew that he would never be able to begin to understand what happened there. He wasn’t even sure he could ask.

“It doesn’t matter. Not now.”

Simon was a wounded animal, who John didn’t dare to hunt.

“Where’s?” He broke away with a gag, hunting all over for his precious little—

“—Mumma!” 

“Barbie!” John sprinted to her, in the hands of an airman, soaked and red in the face from her heart breaking tears. 

John hoisted her up, brushing the water from her face with his moist lips; wrapping her in so tight that he could probably have choked her but that didn’t matter.

_My Simon is here._

**_You’ve scared us and you’ve turned us around._ **

He, with a lump in his throat, handed Barbarella back over to the paramedic: the quivering ball of black fluff being wrapped up tight.

**_But you won’t let us down._ **

_My Simon is alive._

“John?” That bleary voice bought him out of his daze. “There something _I_ should know?”

John visibly blanked. A whole new wave of tears a dust cloud on the rise.

“Johnny, are you…” there was a sniff, a choked off cry, “really going to—”

“—Be a _Mummy_ again.” He finished Simon’s sentence, in a single breath.

Nodding, letting the waters burst their banks; John thrust himself into that grip once more. Full of guilt, relief and guilt.

“I suspected it a while, the week around Barbie’s birthday. Didn’t know till the appointment the day after. For once,” John chuckled at the irony, still tasting salt, “I was _right_.”

“Don’t get used to that feeling,” Simon chuckled, poorly masking his disbelief.

“That’s such a Nick thing to say.”

Breaking his gaze, John cast a heavy glance down at himself. In a way now he was thankful, his weight was still nowhere near where he wished it would be. He had never quite shaken those pregnancy tits, the little podgy belly and stretch marks that reminded him of his darling Barbarella; their journey. Now, with a small sense of pride, he didn’t have to worry about those anymore.

“Simon, I.” He paused, visibly exhausted, being beckoned by the ambulance siren at his back. “Luv, I… we need to talk, please I—” he cut himself off, full of remorse.

“You’re really? Wow.”

John tried to decode that gaze. He decided that he couldn’t.

**_So answer us when we call._ **

“I w-want, goddamnit, you to meet…” 

**_And say if you think we’re wrong._ **

John’s long fingers lurched forward, enclosing around Simon’s soaked palms. He bought them close to land atop of his stomach, chuckling softly that the thin material had stuck to his skin: a whole new bulge aching to be shown.

“My Blue,” John pointed to one side, “ _and_ Silver,” his fingers landed on the other side.

**_When life is so short, we can’t stay long._ **

Simon’s eyes bugged out of his head. John giggled, still full of guilt.

**_But you’ll never be alone._ **

“Simon, please, before we, uh I… we… please. There’s somethin’ I want you to know.”

“ _Two?_ ” It was breathless.

_**Because one day we’ll return.** _

Both men held their breaths, John schooled his mouth to follow his head: finding that it was hopeless, he couldn’t be smart about the delivery; nor could he face the lie.

**_We’ll be waiting for you._ **

“Simon, baby I..” chest shaking, hands quivering, knees about to give way, “I.. I don’t know…” John dropped his hands, stepping backwards. “If,” he bought his own hands to wrap around his stomach, chewing on his bottom lip. “They’re _yours_. I’m so _sorry_ Charlie.. I can’t apologise enough for what I—”

Those beady blue eyes frosted over. In shock, in disgust and rage: John didn’t know.

“I was a stu-stupid, reckless little…” he sniggered, tears streaming hot, “ _slut_. There was one,” John sniffed, pitifully stalling for time.  
  


“One _other?_ ” That voice was harsh, scratchy and detached.

Nodding, “y-yeah he… we, he had some friends, he and I— no, we… they _helped_ me, they got me ready for ya.” John shot back desperately, finger tips quivering as he reached before him. “I know that ain’t no excuse and all but uh, Simon, I...”

“How many times?” That voice was slipping further away, dismissing him with a wave of hand.

“One… _five_ nights?” John couldn’t help it, choking, he couldn’t hold back his rain.

“Is it mine?”  
  


John straightened up. “They.”

“John, tell me, are _they_ mine?”

Voice cracking, sobbing, “I… I _don’t_ know. I won’t, I won’t till… you know, they’re here.”

John scrubbed at his face, the water that stained his hands. Like blood, a spot of blood on them that he would never be able to fully wash away.

“I counted. Late March, 1987.”

With a grunt of defeat, “so _this_ is why you want a house. Why you want me to marry you. Christ, how could I… how could I just walk right into this gobshite? No wonder you’re wanting off of the coke, you twit, fucking hell.”

“It’s not just because of ‘em!” John yelled, motioning to his stomach, pointlessly. “It’s not, I… luv, I, please—”

He was steamrolled straight over. “No wonder you’ve been talking fucking marriage and babies this whole damn time. You knew you were knocked up and, Christ, you knew... you fucking knew you’d _win_. You’d get that ring.”

_Some people call it a one night stand, don’t they Charlie?_

Shrinking back, he fumbled over the next revelation. “I…I can’t live the lie, it’s been tearin’ me up since I found out.”

_But we aren’t that._

  
“‘It’s a better chance it’s yours,” John shot back desperately, “I know it!”

“You always been a sly fucker, playing it clueless but you’ve always had that pathway carved out. You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?!”

_We’re supposed to be paradise._

A deathly silence.

_A family._

“Who knows?” The voice demanded.

Struggling, “me… my parents, and uh,” John swallowed that last inhibition. “Roger.”

“ _Roger?!_ ” They blurted, hands in the air.

John nodded, sheepish. “I ‘ad to tell someone! I couldn’t, think ‘bout it, I couldn’t just… just keep it to myself, Christ!”

  
“Why not tell me? It ain’t like you haven’t had numerous chances this past _month_ to say it? Or,” a grand pause, John shirked away, “that other guy. Guys.”

John stammered out something idiotic.

“Fuck it. We’re _not_ doing this here.”

“But Char—”

“— I said _enough!_ ” The voice screeched, too far for John to guess whether that tone was riddled with tears or relief. “Don’t do this to me now. I almost was buried alive out there, your daughter almost _didn’t_ make it. The thing I love, only second in the world to Barbarella, almost fuckin’... fucking _killed_ me, left me for dead!” They spat, pointing and trying to not shriek at him. John wondered if he’d strike him, he had every right too. “Now I’ve gotta deal with my other love killing me too, huh? That’s it, isn’t it.”

John watched the figure, only now beginning to see how lifeless, begin to retreat.   
  


“Don’t try this shit with me, John. I can’t take it, not now.”

“But Char—”

“Paramedics are waiting for you. Go.” The tone was icy, foreign.

“But Char—”

“— I said _go!_ ” They bellowed, shorting straight through John’s heart. “I’m not letting you or, uh, _your_ children get hurt. You do a damn good job of that alone.” There was a sniff, John gulped audibly. “Besides, you have no idea what’s filling your lungs right now.”

Before he could understand it, that figure was growing smaller and smaller; disappearing into a crowd of others, of medics, of officers and coast guards. Simon had slipped, had simply turned and backed away.

_**Blow your ships back—** _

He left John screaming, overcome with embarrassment, pain raging in his chest and shattered love gnawing at his heart strings. 

**_Blow your ships back—_ **

_Guilt_ , when wasn’t he guilty? He promised Simon he wouldn’t leave him again: their band, their house, their daughter. And now look at him, clutching tight to the biggest mistakes of his life that he would be _keeping_ , no questions asked; asking so much of Simon. To save him, once again.

**_Blow your ships back—_ **

What had he learnt?

John’s knees gave way and he fell to the ground. Head in his hands, a shattering ball, he let Simon walk away and didn’t blame him one bit for doing so. He didn’t fight either, it was a pointless endeavour and he hadn’t the strength to try.

“Grey Lady blow my ship back,” John stammered into his hands, shoulders quivering as he poured out his soul, “my _Simon_ , home.”

**DAY: AUGUST 10TH**

  
Clambering into the ambulance, supposedly safe on the Cornish coast, John had his darling Barbarella back in hand and she, ripping at her Mummy’s dampened curls, was weeping her poor little heart out. John was right there with her; holding her little precious life in his clammy hands; refusing to let go. He prayed over and over, knowing that he’d have to save it, for Simon to one day return. 

The morning after wasn’t enough, enough of what John wasn’t sure. However, now starting aimlessly at the silver tile beneath his feet, the equipment fit to revive him should he really fall into the cardiac arrest of his broken heart: John realised; nine months might just be.

It would take years to get over this, for all the men involved.

**TODAY IS: A BLACK MARK IN THE DURAN CALENDAR**

***  
  


It would be punishment for not believing in _that’s why he’d done it again_. He’d give anything to have his front man by his side, breathing life into him. Him, being John and Nigel: perhaps he could separate the two a little easier, with a band hanging in the balance or no. _Notorious_ was almost there, Italy was calling. Duran had to face the world again. They had to make a living – facing his fears, hiding behind his musical façade again.

What mattered now was that spark, that raging fire burning inside of him. The new life he would be bringing into this world. But, keeping that warning ever so close to heart, knowing the fires _would_ burn out and there was only his fire to blame: John didn’t wait to hold back his rain.

Lying solitary in his hospital bed, weary gaze fixated on the solemn light before him, John was determined for those _little bodies deep inside of him, to never die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I feel oddly complete and lost now that this story is over. Thank you so much for reading and taking this ride with John and me, I know it’s not easy. ❤️
> 
> Catch me @madamepinkvelvet on tumblr in the meantime, I’m taking a break from posting on here.
> 
> Also, here are a couple links to edits that I’ve made for this series; if you’re interested!  
> https://madamepinkvelvet.tumblr.com/post/620180397839499264/youre-why-well-do-it-again-to-celebrate
> 
> https://madamepinkvelvet.tumblr.com/post/620177132368363520/a-third-and-final-reblog-to-celebrate-the


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